


Corvus

by FaultyParagon



Series: Canon-Compliant/Canon-Rooted RWBY Fics [23]
Category: RWBY
Genre: Addiction, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alcohol Withdrawal, Bird Qrow Branwen, Crow Qrow Branwen, Drama, Drama & Romance, Drinking to Cope, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Romance, Feelings Realization, Heartache, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Recovery, Romance, Slow Burn, Volume 7 (RWBY), fair game, qrow is just a birb, who requires snuggles and food, working through trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:41:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 45,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25439404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaultyParagon/pseuds/FaultyParagon
Summary: When Clover was still a student in Atlas Academy, he had nursed a crow with a broken wing back to health. Fifteen years later, an airship carrying eight exhausted teenagers and a spiritually-broken Huntsman crash-land near Mantle. The children will be fine on their own. They are young; their bones are strong. The Huntsman needs a little more help, though, but there are no emotional splints that Clover can use to ease his pain.He’ll figure it out somehow. It’s a good thing Clover already knows a thing or two about crows.-aka Clover helps Qrow recover from addiction and more, whether he realizes it or not. Fair Game fic specifically centered on Qrow’s recovery in V7.
Relationships: Ace Ops & Clover Ebi, Clover Ebi & Ruby Rose, Qrow Branwen & Clover Ebi, Qrow Branwen & Ruby Rose & Yang Xiao Long, Qrow Branwen/Clover Ebi
Series: Canon-Compliant/Canon-Rooted RWBY Fics [23]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1815229
Comments: 530
Kudos: 290





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here's another thing that has slowly been building up in my documents for the past few weeks. Let me know what you think, and if you'd like to see more :D

This is too much of a coincidence. It _has_ to be.

It is nothing but a faint memory now, a distant thought which lingers in his past life as a young student at Atlas Academy, just trying to make his way through school. The rooftop upon which he used to nap during the few summer months, during those fleeting days of temperatures rising just enough to _almost_ soften the top layer of ice surrounding Mantle, is now a different building entirely, having been expanded throughout numerous renovations over the years. Clover has to take a step back and look through his window at the west wing of the school, trying in vain to pinpoint the actual location of the old Aura studies building; he is unsuccessful, for the entire academy looks so different from fifteen years earlier from when he graduated.

He is no longer anywhere near where that rooftop should have been, sitting within his own quarters after a long, frankly baffling day. The group of children who have all landed upon Mantle are not the intruders the military spelled them out to be, but in fact may be the saviours of them all. Clover is still reeling from that fact, unable to take it in properly; how can he simply accept being told that eight bedraggled, wounded, weary children and a single Huntsman watching over them all had protected the entire world from falling apart over the last many months?

No matter how much he doubts the strange turn of events he and the rest of the Ace Ops have witnessed that day, there is no denying that this creature is far stranger. The dark corvid blinks up at him carefully, cocking its head this way and that, hopping from his windowsill to his coffee table to the backs of the chairs, never extending its wings- never moving out of Clover’s reach. Clover is seated upon his bed, watching the crow with just as much curiosity, his nostalgia and familiarity ringing glaring alarms of recognition and confusion and _wonder_ in his mind.

Had it been his senior year at Atlas? Perhaps it had been during the Vytal Festival Tournament- yes, that _had_ to have been it. With the world’s eyes pinpointed upon Atlas, with the world’s most renowned up-and-coming Huntsmen and Huntresses on full display, Clover remembers now why he hadn’t participated in the festivities nearly as much as the average student.

He had found a crow with a broken wing outside of the icy fairgrounds after the opening ceremony.

Clover laughs, watching this bird hop around his quarters with the curiosity of a toddler, checking through little boxes on his dresser and somehow managing to pull open a drawer. He should be stopping it, shooing the creature out; the memories stay his hand as he looks back, remembering the bird which had hopped into his lap and screamed for aid until Clover had helped it all of those years ago. That bird had stayed with Clover for three weeks after Dr. Polendina had helped him splint the bird’s fractured wing. For three weeks, that bird nestled into Clover’s lap, cawing and clicking and trilling whenever Clover spoke to it as if it had understood every word.

Clover has not thought about the tiny creature in years, and yet, with this crow invading his room, Clover cannot help but wonder what ever happened to it. He never quite knew how that bird had found its way to Solitas, where birds never sang due to the cold, where their young never flourished in the desolate expanse of permafrost and tundra. He does not know how this one has found its way to his bedroom atop the towering spires of Atlas Academy, either.

But then, the bird does something peculiar. It hops from dresser to desk to coverlet, then flaps large, powerful wings a single time to glide into Clover’s lap, sinking large, crushing claws gently into his white slacks with ease as if the movements are practiced, trained. Clover squints at the lovely creature in his lap, carefully holding out a hand to the side. Unbidden, the bird clicks and trills happily, pushing its feathered head against Clover’s wide, callused palm.

“No way,” he breathes. He is fifteen years older now- his bedroom is on the opposite end of the Academy from his student days; he looks completely different; it has been _fifteen years-_

And yet, looking into this crow’s eyes, he feels a connection. There has always been something so entrancing about those crimson eyes; something wise beyond measure. Carefully, he scratches underneath the creature’s chin, body instinctively relaxing as the bird leans its head onto Clover’s built chest, settling down in a massive fluff of feathers and warmth.

Crows live a long time, after all. So too do their memories, apparently.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the next chapter. Leave a comment if you're reading along! I'm always curious to hear what y'all think.

These children shall be the death of him, he knows it; after all, James has forbidden him from harming any of them, so Clover himself shall be the one to lose this battle.

There are no words to describe the frenzy which overtakes James from the moment these newcomers awaken in Atlas Academy the next day, rushing around to make preparations for clothing, supplies, weapons. Clover has never seen him go so far to aid regular Huntsmen, so to see James’ delight and care and joy for these yawning kids is bizarre.

A part of Clover tries to ignore the fact that this kindness is likely stemming from guilt. These children were students of Beacon Academy, after all.

Clover lets out a quiet sigh as James continues to book off Dr. Polendina’s time to assist in upgrading the children’s equipment, but he cannot fault James for it; Clover knows he is just bitter, feeling hazy after waking up in his bed alone. The window had been opened somehow and the bird had disappeared when he had opened his eyes, which was a little disappointing, a little jarring. Yet, the mere memory of it is enough to bring an amazed smile to Clover’s face, for he did not wake up cold despite the frigid air tunneling into his bedroom. Instead, he had awoken that morning underneath all of his covers, plus the extra blanket normally laid across the foot of his bed, clumsily drawn over his body from one corner.

The image of the large crow tugging a blanket over his sleeping form is absolutely baffling, bringing a smile unbidden to his face- did crows understand just how much warmth humans need to survive in Solitas?- but he still would have preferred to have seen the bird come morning.

As it is, it feels like he has imagined the entire experience.

James hands Clover a stack of files to look through containing requests from the children regarding training spaces and whatnot, murmuring, “Please try and get them whatever they’ve asked for, Clover. They deserve it.”

Clover is a breath away from mentioning that this set of menial tasks is certainly not in his job description, but he bites it down, flipping through the pages. His morning is clear anyways, and James is his CO, so he will listen.

The requests are simple overall, and he knows he will be able to arrange everything listed with just a few conversations with Atlas Academy’s professors. So, he flips to the last page, reading a sparse list from the one Huntsman of the group, accompanied by a handwritten note from James- a request to pull a bottle of whisky from the officer’s mess on James’ tab for the man. Clover raises a brow, but does not question it. At least the affection makes sense for the Huntsman who had accompanied the children to Solitas; he has acted as their guide, and as an old friend of James, Clover has no issue with the warm reception given to Qrow Branwen.

However, that does not mean he is not wary of the older man. Clover has heard tales of the man from Winter, has read rules in the handbook apparently designed _thanks_ to Qrow and his antics in years past; but Clover has also seen battle footage, has analyzed combat data for everyone in Ozpin’s faction in order to understand where best to place potential allies in the upcoming battle against Salem. He knows that Qrow Branwen is one of the most fearsome creatures he has ever seen, and the very thought of witnessing the ferocity of that deadly, curved, bloody scythe wielded by the Huntsman is enough to make Clover’s palms clammy in his gloves.

Still, the newcomers to Atlas are resting that day and Clover is happy to finish up those errands, report back to James, and head out for an evening patrol of Mantle’s wall. _If those kids are actually strong enough, maybe we can get them to take on the evening patrols._ The thought of being able to sleep at a holy hour keeps him going as he culls a small group of Sabyrs just outside the wall before heading back to Mantle.

To his surprise, he has a visitor waiting for him. Pecking at his windowsill is the same bird, cawing and flapping its wings to catch his attention from the moment Clover opens up the front door to his quarters, watching him so insistently through the glass the Clover almost feels like he is dreaming; this kind of focus cannot belong to a wild creature. With red boring holes into his soul, Clover carefully hangs up his weapon, removes his uniform and slips on comfortable pants, and finally opens the window.

The bird flutters in unceremoniously, perching atop his headboard as if waiting for Clover to climb into bed. The image strikes Clover’s fancy, so he chuckles and shakes his head, going through his routine and setting his alarm for the next day despite increasingly-demanding caws from the bird, a clear sign of it wanting him to hurry up. After the cries have become almost deafening, Clover finally concedes, slipping into his bed and letting out a low chuckle as the bird immediately hops onto his lap and tucks its beak into the crook of Clover’s arm.

There is an indescribable surge of warmth in Clover’s heart as he sees this giant bird so tamely begging for warmth. There is heartache and regret within him, too; the bird is freezing, its feathers beginning to frost, its claws shaking against Clover, curled up, razor-sharp talons clutching icy air. “I can’t believe you remembered me, buddy,” he croons despite himself, stroking the feathers atop the bird’s back, feeling powerful muscles vibrate and flex between large wings. “Where’ve you been all these years? How’d you find me?”

The bird merely trills, cocking its head to the side sharply for a moment before settling down, squat and low, feathers fluffed out around it as it nestles against Clover.

A thought strikes Clover, worrying and growing stronger by the second. “Wait, are you hurt? Do you need help again?”

The bird clicks, slow and sad and weary.

Clover whispers, “Alright, buddy. Let’s sleep.” And despite all of his common sense screaming at him to throw this bird back out into the wild, he sinks down into a half-seated incline and drags the blankets up over himself, cradling the corvid against his chest, feeling the comforting weight of this lonely creature settling against him and its cool, icy feathers heat up against his skin, and Clover sleeps.


	3. Chapter 3

There is a tension he can feel between himself and Qrow Branwen, and he is not entirely sure where it is coming from.

While Clover knows that this figure is the same one which he has seen in combat footage, and although he knows that Qrow is the same incredible Huntsman he saw tear down the Grimm the first night when he and the Ace Ops had mistakenly apprehended the children in Mantle, it still feels as if the man who stands before him is a little… smaller than expected. There is a weakness in his stance, a slump in his shoulders as he follows behind Clover. His strangely-crimson eyes are glassy, unaware, strained. Perhaps Qrow is just fatigued; it has only been a few days since the children have come to Atlas alongside their Huntsman caretaker, so it would only be fair if he was still exhausted from the journey he has undertaken. Yet, it is something more than that- the man has gotten a new wardrobe more fitting of the weather of Solitas, but even cleaned up in new clothes and a fresh shave, Clover realizes that it is more than clothes and demeanor which feels off when he watches the older Huntsman.

It is almost as if Qrow Branwen is _shy._

Clover thinks little of it. When Qrow finally admits to him what his Semblance is, coming clean about his misfortune causing suffering to most of the other Huntsmen he has ever worked with, Clover finally understands why James has told him to work with Qrow as much as possible; Clover’s own Semblance, his good luck, will be able to counterbalance any grief Qrow’s presence may bring. Clover does not mind the request; to him, the thought of working with such an experienced Huntsman is a privilege, one he does not take lightly.

And yet, the way that Qrow avoids eye contact, his pale, gaunt cheeks flushing a slight pink when Clover winks at him; the way he stumbles and stutters, trying to play it cool despite the fact that they both have realized he is clumsy beyond measure; the way his scythe rips through the air, cleanly destroying Grimm before Clover can blink, only to owlishly stare, unable to regain his balance as he plants face-first into the ground whenever Clover is too far away to catch him and he trips over his own feet again- Qrow Branwen is clumsy and he is _cute_ for it, and it is everything that Clover never expected to see from the older, famed Huntsman who James respects with all his heart, who Winter begrudgingly respects despite her distaste, who has managed to keep the world alive for just a few more days by protecting the Relic of Knowledge and the children bearing it halfway across the world.

But Clover normally has little patience for dallying. He is there to do a job, and stuttering, rough voices and flushed ears are not enough to capture his heart, as endearing as Qrow seems to be. Instead, Clover finds himself longing to go home that day as soon as possible for one reason, and one reason alone; to be with the corvid.

He does not name the creature. He had tried once when he was still a student, but the bird had squawked and pecked at him until he had given up and simply referred to it with a plethora of pet names and affectionate cooing. He does not mind the ambiguity behind what he calls the creature; all that matters is that whenever he steps into his bedroom after nightfall, the corvid inevitably pecks at his window and settles into his arms, waiting for the tender affection which Clover gives in spades. It always manages to leave before Clover wakes up, but Clover has long given up on wishing the bird was there in the morning; just having it around is enough. It has come back every night since that first reappearance, and Clover will not question the warmth the bird brings into his heart.

If his teammates saw how much he cooed and hummed with the corvid in his arms, he would be the laughing stock of Atlas in a heartbeat.

Clover has always wanted a pet. He never had one as a child; that crow back in his student days had been the closest thing he had ever had to a lifelong companion. To have that same crow back and just as needy as ever warms Clover’s heart like nothing else, and to have the bird react so lovingly to his tender ministrations does nothing but fuel Clover’s secret, burning desire to keep the bird with him at all times. It is healing, holding the corvid close to his chest, feeling the rapid, fluttering heartrate calming his own down each night, a tiny ribcage pressed against his. He loves this little bird.

And so, after his first mission with the children and with Qrow, he finds himself in his room after a night of celebrating the successful mission with the rookies. There was leftover cake after their inauguration as Huntsmen and Huntresses, and his team had called him over to enjoy the rest of it after his paperwork and reports were all finished. Clover had obliged more out of politesse than anything else, but now, he is weary and not looking forward to running a briefing in the early morn with eight more children to take care of, rather than just Marrow amongst his teammates.

Thankfully, the crow swoops in only after he flicks his apartment lights on, meaning that he hadn’t left it waiting for too long. Letting the bird in without a second thought, Clover strips down and slips into his pyjamas, then opens up the top shelf in the unused kitchenette in his quarters. Within, there are a few bottles of brandy, whisky, rum, scotch- he has collected them over the years, and he doesn’t hesitate to enjoy a glass or two after a successful mission. It is always with grace and restraint that he imbibes drinks, so he does not worry about being able to get up early enough the next day.

Yet, the moment the bottle of scotch appears in his hands, the crow is squawking and screeching loud enough to awaken the neighbouring units. Clover immediately puts the bottle down and walks over to the bird, shushing and humming and soothing it, for he has never seen a reaction so volatile from the creature in his life; he holds out his arms, heart collapsing when he feels how the bird trembles and shakes, immediately burying its beak into his chest.

Clover glances over his shoulder at the uncapped bottle. _Does the scent make them sick?_ he wonders, making a mental note to do some research the next day. He doesn’t know what is bothering the creature, but he is more than happy to put it away if it will help the bird calm down.

So, he does, hiding the scotch back in the shelf and getting ready for bed. When he is washed up, he slips under the covers and pats the duvet, relaxing at last once the bird finally leaves the windowsill and glides gracefully into his arms, tail feathers finally relaxing a little as it nestles against Clover. He laughs, turning off his bedside light and getting ready for bed. “Are you alright, little bird?” he coos.

Red eyes watch him carefully before the bird trills, resting its head adoringly upon his arm, and Clover smiles back. “Goodnight, buddy,” he whispers, holding the crow protectively against his chest. To his relief, the crow’s previous agitation is gone, and it sinks into him, keeping Clover warm through the night.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the next one. Can you tell that I'm updating a ton in order to avoid working on actual assignments and work emails? Because I can see it. (I swear I'll get it all done early, I just have no willpower rn)

Qrow Branwen is irritable beyond measure, and Clover cannot figure out for the life of him what he has done wrong to make the older Huntsman snap so.

It begins at their morning briefing two days after the rookies are sworn in as honorary Huntsmen and Huntresses; Clover pours himself a cup of coffee provided by the mess hall staff in the back of the briefing room and takes a long, hearty swig, feeling the liquid slide down his throat, smooth and bitter as always. It immediately awakens him, snapping him out of his stupefied form; he has been stumbling and half-asleep all morning, all lethargy and weary bones. He blames the crow, the bird always clumsily tugging up the extra blanket over his form before it pulls the window open and escapes, for the warmth provided by the extra layer always makes him docile and cozy and unwilling to actually leave his bed. If the bird had stayed in his arms, Clover does not know whether he would have been able to will himself up at the crack of dawn to prepare for the briefing ahead.

But the bird always does leave, and Clover does not have the heart to try and keep it in his quarters during the day, so the coffee will have to replace the warmth the crow leaves in his heart. It is just for the daylight hours. He can make it through.

Once he has made this determined decision, Qrow staggers into the briefing room, making a beeline for the coffeepot at the back. Clover happily pours him a cup, tries to make small talk- and just like that, the frustrated glaring and lips pressed thinly together begins. The way that Qrow snaps at him definitely does not help his frustration in having to be there so early.

Qrow fidgets, Clover realizes. He taps his fingers against his paper coffee cup, drums them against the cool metal of his folding chair in the audience of the briefing. The toe of his boots goes _click, click, click_ against the tile, so fast it almost sounds like the whirring fan of one of the clunky air heaters within the corners of the room. His eyes dart every which way constantly, and it is only when he is properly addressed and guided is he able to pay attention. And when Clover points out that his focus is drifting, Qrow is quick to snarl and bite and snap, only reigning himself in after harsh words are shared, after snarky comments and bitter retorts spill from his lips. He seems genuine in his apologies, citing a heavy head and a slight cold and a lack of sleep as the reasons for his anger. Clover does not question him.

James had wanted Clover to stick with him, but the more Qrow Branwen fights back for no reason, the more Clover wonders whether it is time to ask the general for permission to ignore this particular command.

Clover does not know why Qrow acts this way. It is odd, suspicious- no one else seems to notice the way the man’s brow seems to constantly shine with sweat, how his Aura is always halfway empty, how his smiles towards his nieces disappear the moment they are out of the room. Qrow always apologizes moments after he angers, his expression remorseful and his handsome face fatigued, so Clover accepts the words and carries on, betraying nothing of his inner turmoil. But he knows something is wrong.

No one else notices how Qrow always looks two moments from crying.

However, it is none of Clover’s business. These actions do not impede the man’s precise movements upon the battlefield, and Clover quickly realizes that his own battle prowess is utterly outmatched by the elder’s skill. It is a rude awakening for Clover; for years, he has relied on his luck more than his skill half the time to turn the tides of battle, knowing that as long as his Aura remains in the green, he will be able to take control of any fight. Qrow, on the other hand, has constantly had to hone his skills in order to make sure that he can fight his Semblance and his enemies effectively, two opponents coming from both inside and out. Those years spent refining that skill is clear in the difference between their impacts upon the battlefield, and Clover has to bite down on the resentment which naturally blooms within his heart as he realizes this clumsy, stuttering creature is a better Huntsman than Clover even with his misfortune haunting him.

That is why Qrow’s odd behaviour catches Clover’s attention. At first, Clover wants to bring it up to James; the general would surely know what the normal state for Qrow Branwen would look like, so it is only natural to want to approach the elder. And yet, even James states that he has not noticed this shift in Qrow, only stating that his old friend is “softer than before; likely due to his nieces,” Clover cannot read it as anything but an excuse for the fact that Qrow’s crimson eyes are constantly red and blurry and halfway filled with tears.

He wants to bring it up with the man himself, Qrow’s odd behaviour looming over him almost constantly as a few missions turns into a week’s worth of work side by side; but that would also mean that he would have to admit that despite it all- despite Qrow’s odd behaviour and strange mannerisms, he still finds Qrow Branwen alluring.

 _Maybe he just hates me._ Clover hopes it isn't so, but he would not blame the other Huntsman if that was the case. Clover's good luck is the antithesis to the suffering that Qrow has experienced all his life, and Clover cannot imagine the struggle the elder must feel when facing the fact that Clover has never faced the same pain Qrow has.

He voices these thoughts one evening with the bird, of all creatures. The crow is settled into his arms, recharging Clover after a long, wearying trip ferrying Dust to the Amity Project. He murmurs his quiet opinions on Qrow, his thoughts about the man’s combat capabilities, his fears about the man’s inattention, his worry for the man’s wellbeing, and his undeniable admiration for the man’s strength and physique.

The crow goes strangely still as he speaks, and Clover finds himself turning on the light to check on the creature when it ceases to even shuffle in his arms. The bird immediately buries its face in his chest, only clicking quietly in response when he whispers, “Hey, bud. You okay?”

Clover smiles, running his fingers from the top of the bird’s head all the way down its back, then scratching its cheeks and under its chin. “It’s time for bed,” he says, flicking the light back off by his bedside and sliding further down underneath his covers, turning on his side. The corvid hops over to his pillow and squats down, laying its beak on Clover’s nose. The tiny sensation of breaths upon his nose makes Clover ticklish, but he does not dare to move, simply contenting himself in the warmth the darkness and the corvid’s presence brings; completely pushing his odd interactions with Qrow Branwen out of his mind.


	5. Chapter 5

The new routine brings to Clover a level of comfort he had not even realized he wanted in his life. The crow is always there to soothe his worries, clucking and trilling and squawking at Clover whenever he tries to push himself past his limits, forcing the man to go to bed earlier, manage his time better; he finds himself growing more and more alert as days go by, as for once in his career he is routinely getting a full night’s rest. The effect it has on him is invigorating.

The corvid seems more comfortable, too. It no longer pecks at the window the moment the lights turn on, instead trusting Clover to open the window for it. It flies automatically to the headboard and preens itself while Clover gets ready for bed, and when Clover needs to stay up late, it eats the little snacks that Clover sets out for himself and coos happily when Clover’s laughing fits at the bird’s jerky motions distracts him from his paperwork. There comes a point two weeks after the rookies begin to take on missions in earnest that the corvid is in his chambers every night, and Clover no longer remembers how to sleep without a fluttering heartbeat faintly soothing his own.

One evening after a particularly taxing mission, Clover is barely able to keep his eyes open long enough to make it to his chambers. He had debated on joining Elm and Harriet in the officer’s mess with the other Huntsmen for a drink, for many of them played a part in the raid that destroyed a subterranean Grimm’s nest; yet, the sheer exhaustion has finally taken over, so he had declined, making his way back to his room. He does not want to keep his companion waiting, after all.

However, moments after the bird enters his room and lands upon his lap, Clover’s fingers gently stroking long, beautiful black feathers to warm them up, his Scroll begins to ring. Clover frowns; once he is off-duty, he does not like answering calls. He has made these boundaries clear, so no one ever calls him unless it is an emergency.

On the screen, James’ image pops up. Immediately, Clover straightens up and accepts the call, turning on his earpiece so James’ disembodied voice does not startle the bird watching him curiously in his lap. “Sir, what is it?” he asks.

“Do you know where Qrow is?” James replies instantly, an edge which Clover has not heard in many moons evident in James’ voice. It is worrying, the amount of anxiety betrayed by those words. “Have you seen him around?”

“No, sir. I haven’t seen him since we finished the raid, and I’ve been completing the reports in my office for a few hours since.”

The general hums. “Well, alright. If you see him, send him to the medical ward; I received a report that Ruby Rose was injured in her mission, and I know he would like to be there with his niece.”

Clover frowns, mind racing. “Ruby? She was on a mission with Weiss, was she not? What happened to put her in the medical- ow, what?“ Before Clover can finish his sentence, the massive corvid in his lap stands up straight, its claws digging painfully into Clover’s thigh, ignoring Clover’s wince at the pressure. The bird leaps off his lap and flaps powerful, broad wings to the window, streaking out into the pitch-black night sky without so much as a second thought, leaving behind a baffled Clover and holes in the thigh of his pyjama pants from the corvid’s talons.

“Clover, are you alright?” James asks, concerns mounting.

Clover gets up and scurries to the window, but the bird is long gone in the night. Crestfallen, he murmurs, “Yes sir, I just…” He sighs, feeling some of the bubbling joy from the bird’s familiar weight in his lap dissipating. “You said Ruby is in the medical ward? I’ll go down there myself, and if I see Qrow I’ll let him know. I need to see if I should take her off the roster.”

“Thanks, Clover,” James replies, clearly as exhausted as Clover. “I’ll send Penny on another round to find him; he’s not in his room, so we’ll see. Maybe you’ll have more luck.”

A smile forms unbidden upon his lips. “I’ll be off, then.” As efficiently as possible, Clover ignores the turquoise sparks dancing along his leg to heal the unintentional gashes from the bird’s sudden strength, changing back into his uniform and jogging down to the medical ward of Atlas Academy within minutes. He is grateful that his passes allow him access to all of the shortcuts and fire escapes, cutting the journey far shorter than if he had had to traverse the halls.

Within the hospital room in question, Weiss Schnee is seated primly next to an unconscious Ruby, her hands folded neatly on her lap and her brows drawn up in clear, trembling worry. Red sparks dance across Ruby’s skin occasionally underneath large bandages across her forehead and arm, but the girl’s vitals seem fine upon the monitors. Clover smiles kindly at Weiss. “How is she?”

“She’s fine,” Weiss responds through a clenched jaw, not believing her words. “The dolt managed to get herself surrounded by too many Sabyrs. She jumped too far ahead.”

Clover sighs, pulling out his Scroll and sending a quick message to Qrow with Ruby’s room number in case the man has his Scroll on him. “I’ll remove her from the roster tomorrow,” he says to Weiss. After a moment’s pause, he adds, “Would you like to stay with her tomorrow, too?”

It is the right decision; Weiss’ face melts into relief. “If that’s alright,” she breathes, her concern for her teammate clear as day.

Suddenly, the door behind them crashes open. Qrow stumbles inside, racing to Ruby’s side. “Ruby!” the man cries, dropping to his knees by her bedside, grabbing onto one bandaged hand with his. “Ruby, are you okay?” His frantic gaze lands upon Weiss, who quietly explains how the younger girl has ended up in this sorry state. When she is finished, Clover raises his brows in surprise as Qrow’s eyes soften, the man whispering, “Thanks for bringing her back, Weiss.”

“Of course. I’ll always bring her back.”

Clover steps forward from the side of the room, snorting silently as he realizes that Qrow has not even seen him. He places a friendly, reassuring hand on Qrow’s shoulder, saying, “Don’t worry, I’ve removed her from tomorrow’s briefing so she can rest-“

But the moment he touches Qrow, the elder snaps back to look at him, only for his sallow skin and gaunt cheeks to turn a splotchy, mottled red. He looks away, muttering, “Wh-what are you doing here?”

Frowning, Clover crosses his arms and replies, “James called me to see if I could locate you. Did you get my message?”

For a second, Qrow’s face is confused before breaking into a state of clumsy knowing. “Yeah, yeah I did.”

Anyone can tell he is lying, but Clover has no idea why he would. He wants to interrogate the older man further- why wasn’t he in his quarters for Penny to find him, after all?- but he does not get the chance when Yang and Blake rush into the room as well. Blake immediately goes to Weiss and wraps the girl in a hug, while Yang rushes over to Ruby beside Qrow, brushes her little sister’s hair out of her forehead, then turns to her uncle, giving Qrow a hug. “Ruby will be fine, Uncle Qrow,” Yang murmurs into Qrow’s shoulder, more vulnerable than Clover has ever seen.

Qrow’s body trembles, hair rising with gooseflesh along his bared arms and nape, betraying his anxiety. “I know, firecracker,” he whispers back, stroking his older niece’s hair while he looks at Ruby’s unconscious form.

There is a heaviness, a meaning in their exchange that Clover does not understand, nor does he know if he has the capacity to. This is not how teams interact in Atlas. It… is feels foreign to him.

He does not know whether he is jealous or relieved that he cannot relate.

Then, Qrow lets go of Yang, and he does something curious. Clover does not know what he means to accomplish by reaching his hand into his jacket, the movement so practiced it seems more automatic than any conscious decision. What he _does_ notice, however, is that Yang, Weiss and Blake’s faces all immediately darken and glower as they watch him, and Qrow freezes, shock twisting into grief-filled shame before his hand falls out of his coat and he rests his head upon the edge of Ruby’s bed, breathing in deep.

Clover does not understand, but he can tell that he does not belong here. From the side of the room, he moves some of the chairs closer to the bed so Yang and Qrow can sit down properly while Blake shares Weiss’ seat, and then, Clover leaves the medical ward after sending a quick message to James, feeling more unsettled and weary than before.

The bird is not there when he goes back to his quarters, nor does it return for the next two nights. Clover is lonely.


	6. Chapter 6

Ruby’s recover is swift, and soon, the young woman is back on her feet and ready to rejoin the battle. Clover sighs as he watches Qrow’s eyes flit over her face worriedly, the man’s attention leaping onto the description of the mission to which she has been assigned for the day. His eyes rove over the holoscreen, a grimace quickly pulling his lips as he realizes that his niece shall be in danger yet again.

Clover does not say anything, does not approach the other Huntsman. It is not his place to console him about Ruby participating in missions. This is the life she has chosen, after all.

However, it _is_ Clover’s place to murmur, “Hey, Qrow, have you been getting enough sleep?” once they are sitting in the back of a supply van together, the vehicle trundling down the road with a duo of Atlesian Knights in the front seat alongside a loudly-humming Elm at the steering wheel.

Qrow takes a moment to look at him, his face haggard and worn. There is a deadness in his eyes that painfully juxtaposes the frantic air he has carried about himself ever since he ran into that hospital room days earlier; it sets Clover’s teeth on edge, leaving him tense and wary of the elder’s reactions. Qrow seems volatile, even more so than usual.

It breaks Clover’s heart slightly to see Qrow so downtrodden. The man is painfully capable, and even in his exhausted state, Clover cannot help but silently admit that the elder is still painfully handsome, too. _I wonder how he would react if I told him that?_

There is no point trying to rile the man up unnecessarily. Qrow does not seem like he would be able to manage to focus on multiple things at once due to his fatigue, so it is better to just save his energy in case of a Grimm attack. So, he puts on a strained smile towards Qrow and says gently, “You seem a little more tired than usual. Just want to make sure everything’s alright.”

Something in Qrow’s face seizes for a moment- his mouth opens slightly, air slipping past parched lips as if preparing to speak, only for his expression to scrunch up and his teeth to clench together, a myriad of emotions flooding his eyes within the blink of an eye before he lets out a harrowing sigh, shoulders trembling as if losing all strength. Clover sits up straighter at the mere sight of it, alarmed; he has half a mind to make the call right now and get Qrow a medic as he notices the sheen of sweat upon Qrow’s brow and the tremor of his hands upon his lap.

If he does that, though, Qrow would be upset. Clover can already imagine the pure fury emanating off the elder if he should step out of his place as a ‘colleague’, so instead, Clover merely reaches over and places a hand on one of Qrow’s dejected shoulders. “You know you can talk to me, right?”

To his relief, the corner of Qrow’s mouth quirks upwards, clearly surprised by the kindness in Clover’s usually-neutral tone. “…Thanks, boy scout. I’ll keep that in mind.”

Clover feels himself flushing at nickname. Qrow has never been so transparently welcoming to him before. _Maybe I’m getting through to him,_ he thinks, vaguely in awe of the softness of Qrow’s eyes in that brief moment before trouble clouds his expression once more. It is a tiny victory, but one which Clover holds onto for the rest of the day.

Then, that evening, the crow is back at his window. It is as if a weight tumbles off Clover’s shoulders when he hears delicate pecks, the man practically springing to the window with his toothbrush sticking out of his mouth in response. It is undignified, but Clover does not care; he simply throws open the latch and allows the corvid into his quarters, melting as the massive creature finds a perch upon his shoulder. Giant, strong talons, easily able to rend flesh from his collar, simply grip his shirt gently. Yet, the bird is trembling a little, Clover quickly realizes; it is unusual, not the normal vibrations and contractions experienced when the creature is cold. With that in mind, he walks back to the bathroom, finishes brushing his teeth, and sits down upon his bed, tapping his extra pillow so that the bird can allow him to lie down in the darkness.

The corvid obeys, hunkering down onto the pillow while Clover rolls onto his side. “Where’ve you been, huh?” he scolds lightly, unable to hold back his smile. The bird merely watches him, red eyes glittering in the darkness.

However, they do not shine as brightly as before.

Clover reaches up a hand to hold the bird’s head, stroking short feathers and a strong brow gently, whispering, “I missed you.”

A quick click is his only reply. The bird is indeed shaking, a kind of sickly sheen to his feathers that concerns Clover, but he does not know what he can do to help aside from providing warmth and comfort. Although he could never really know it for sure, he feels like that is what the bird wants from him, too, and he is happy to provide.

As he carefully pets the corvid, he begins to tell the bird of his adventures in the crow’s absence; of his missions, of his teammates, of James. Of Ruby’s injury and her team’s heartache, and of Qrow and his weariness.

“I’m worried about him,” he concludes, running his hand down a shivering back, trailing his touch down long tail feathers. “We’re comrades, now.”

To his surprise, the bird simply hops closer in response, nestling against Clover’s head. Then, Clover feels a cold beak gently running through his hair, preening freshly washed strands and pushing them into order, up and out of his eyes.

The touch is so tender that it awes and terrifies and moves Clover to his deepest core. He cannot dare to even breathe while the bird demonstrates that it cares for Clover like one of its own; so, he simply melts into his pillow, allowing the silent ministrations of the bird to soothe him to sleep, idly realizing right as his consciousness drifts away that the bird’s trembling has finally ceased.


	7. Chapter 7

“Qrow, have you been seeing someone as of late?”

The question is innocuous coming from James, and it is not as if it is said in front of the rookies; James, Winter, Qrow, and Clover are in one of the few private booths in the mess, enjoying a simple dinner. Clover normally would have abstained, but when Qrow initially declined, James’ silent looks of insistence came to Clover. Those pleas are always difficult to ignore, especially now that James has also noticed the same thing which Clover has seen as of late.

Qrow is the most comfortable when he is with Clover.

His colouring has grown better over the past week. It is a great relief to Ruby and Yang especially; Clover overhears their whispers one day while riding an airship taking them all to Mantle for a patrol. The two girls point feverishly at Qrow, who is sitting in the co-pilot’s seat with a small smile on his lips, exchanging barely-audible, but frantic all the same, words of confusion and surprise and debate. When Ruby’s eyes fill unexpectedly with tears, however, and she presses her forehead against her older sister’s shoulder and shudders, gasping out a broken, “Oh thank _goodness,_ ” Clover can only watch in surprise and confusion, for he doesn’t have a clue as to what is going on, but clearly he had been right. Something was wrong with Qrow.

And, according to the amount of pure pride on Yang’s face as she smiles at the back of her weary uncle’s head, it is clear that whatever it is has slowly begun to get better.

Clover’s fingers twitch in his lap, neatly cut nails digging into the fabric of his slacks as he leans his head back, wondering what to do. He wants to ask. He does not ask.

But during the mission, he notices that the girls are absolutely right. Once they leave the ship, Qrow throws out a quick wink and a thermos Clover hadn’t known he was carrying. They’re set to do patrols outside the walls that day; opening up the flask, Clover inhales the rich scent of freshly-brewed coffee, black with a hint of sugar, just like Clover prefers it but never bothers making. It is easier to drink coffee plain during morning briefings rather than to fight Nora and Marrow for the box of sugar cubes, after all; that can be Ren’s job.

Clover frowns as he takes a sip. It is perfect against the frigidity of the tundra.

There is no reason for Qrow to know that when he is alone, he puts sugar in his coffee.

When he sees Clover’s confusion, Qrow’s eyes grow worried, flustered. “Did- is something wrong?”

“No,” Clover breathes, clipping the thermos to his small pack. “We’re fine. Let’s head out.”

And for once, Qrow’s response is not scathing nor biting. It is merely warm. “Alright.”

_He looks healthier now._

Clover doesn’t know why. He is happy for Qrow, though. Perhaps his demons have grown a little weaker as of late.

This behaviour continues over the next few days, with Qrow appearing weary and sleepless, but happier nonetheless. His anger is quick to bubble over with the rest of the Ace Ops, but it is no longer directed at Clover, the elder Huntsman merely playing the role of a dedicated comrade. It is strange to no longer need to tiptoe around the man, but Clover is relieved; perhaps his words of support have gotten across to Qrow after all.

However, this softening of Qrow’s demeanor is absolutely no reason for James to put the other man on the spot, causing him to choke on his water while Winter gawps at the general and Clover almost drops his fork. James never asks personal details beyond what was necessary, or beyond what is needed to help with compassionate circumstances. He has long before perfected his boundaries, his borders- so why would he bring up something like Qrow’s relationship status?!

When Qrow coughs out that very question, James merely shrugs, a sly, teasing glint in his dark eyes. “You’re always away from your quarters!” James explains with a chuckle. “You’d think after missions you’d be around. I’d like to have a drink sometime, but you never pick up your Scroll after hours, and whenever I pop by your room is empty. I figured you were meeting someone.” His smile grows just a hint wider, adding, “You always were a hit with-“

“Jimmy, what-“

“ _General,_ ” Winter hisses as if on reflex.

“- _Jimothy_ , whatever,” Qrow growls back at the young woman before turning back to James, disgruntled beyond measure. “Seriously, James, just send me a message beforehand. I’ve been, uh… I’ve been trying to do what you said. With the whole… ‘taking a break’ thing.”

Clover softens, eating silently as he watches the exchange. His silence is only compounded by the sheer affection in James’ face; he has never seen the general so at ease with another, but clearly with Qrow, he feels no restraints on being just James, and not General Ironwood. There is clearly far more history here than he is aware of, so there is no point in chiming in; he merely takes the time to quietly catalogue everyone’s reactions, storing them away to mull over later, for Qrow Branwen is still nothing but an enigma to him.

Clover’s always been good at puzzles, however. He’s not worried.

James glances over to Clover. “Have you seen him around in the evenings, Clover? Where’s this guy been hiding?” James laughs, all friendly, gentle ribbing.

Clover shakes his head, putting on his most neutral smile. “I’ve been returning to my quarters the moment I can,” he laughs wryly. “Do you have any idea how much energy it takes to watch over the new kids? And I thought _Marrow_ was a handful…”

James chuckles, asking nothing else, allowing Clover to let out a small sigh of relief, for he has no idea how he could even begin to explain that he is not lying; he’s been so caught up in coming home as soon as possible every day so that he can go to bed earlier cuddling a massive corvid.

… _okay, maybe it is weird._

Clover shrugs. No one needed to know his story off-duty, so he didn’t mind leaving the conversation there.

To his surprise, when he looks back to Qrow, the other man’s crimson eyes are locked onto him until Clover brings his gaze up to meet them, and when they make eye contact, Qrow’s cheeks flush a certain shade that Clover cannot quite name. It suits his eyes. Clover doesn’t pay it much heed, however, for his hackles are immediately raised at the sight of Qrow’s soft smile.

It looks like Qrow _knows_ about what Clover’s smile means, and the very thought is unsettling beyond measure. Clover turns his gaze back to his dinner. His roasted vegetables don’t seem as appetizing anymore _._

 _I’ll head back soon._ The crow’s comforting warmth in his arms would ease his mild discomfort effortlessly. He didn’t need to worry.


	8. Chapter 8

The crow is here. It sits upon the rooftop of a nearby house, watching Clover with such intensity that Clover wants to cry. It is late, and Clover is not up in his room like usual; he is on a night watch of Mantle’s wall, taking his turn to patrol, but every part of him longs to call out to the creature and hold it in his arms, for the red eyes shining in the darkness hold within them such a fervour that Clover cannot help but feel, deep within his gut, that something is _wrong._

He glances over his shoulder at Marrow, the young man innocently walking ahead with all of the energy and youth that he is known for; his grin is broad, stride wide and at ease, gun held at his chest and ready to fire off shots should he need to. He is quick on his feet, Clover knows; if Clover beckons the crow over, holds out his arms and folds the creature against his chest, Marrow will for sure see.

Clover does not need his one little secret to be found out. The bird is his treasure, his peace. He does not want Marrow to intrude on this happiness he has found for himself.

So, he continues upon his patrol with Marrow. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the crow gliding smoothly between the rooftops, keeping abreast with him. Every once in a while, the bird flies off and Clover sighs, eliciting a confused look from Marrow and a twinge of loneliness within Clover; it is soon remedied each time, however, as he is always able to see the bird sitting underneath a heating lamp, presumably trying to warm up before bracing against the cold in order to accompany Clover on his journey once more.

The bird stays by his side, eyes trained upon Clover. The mere sight of it makes his heart ache. He just wants to carry the bird in his arms, to hold it close. It has become just as much of a tool of comfort to him as he knows he is to it, and he wants to do right by it.

Their shift is relatively peaceful, but there is one moment which feels odd, out of place; Marrow’s eyes widen and panic fills his features before cool, hardened resolve takes over seamlessly, the barrel of his weapon pointing at Clover in the blink of an eye. “At your six!”

Before Marrow can fire, before Clover can turn, two gunshots ring out into the air, silencing the dull rumble of chatter and footsteps from citizens many levels below in town for a brief moment. Clover spins on his heel, finding nothing but acrid smoke rising into the air.

Glancing over his shoulder, he pauses as Marrow’s jaw drops. The younger Huntsman quietly explains, his confusion clear as day, “There… there were two Manticores there, I swear.”

Clover knows that Marrow is a terrible liar- his tail gives everything away- which means that every word he states at that moment must be truth. “So… they just combusted?” Clover asks, glancing around.

There is no one around. The rooftops and highest peaks of the city wall are barren, save for Marrow and Clover. There is naught but the crow.

It leaves an unsettling twinge in his stomach, but dismissing the situation becomes easy instinct as smoke dissipates into nothing, leaving behind no trace of the monsters that had apparently attempted to attack him. It is easier to ignore the situation. As long as the people are safe, their job is done.

It is a few hours of this routine until Marrow and Clover are finally finished, nothing but idle small talk and meaningless exchanges shared between the two in the lightest, friendliest of voices. However, the moment they are free, Marrow salutes and says, “Sir, I have plans with some friends, so I’ll stay in Mantle for now.”

“Don’t be late to our briefing tomorrow.”

Marrow’s grin is impish and sly, and he nods, all youthful confidence and bluster. “Of course!” he chirps before walking away.

Clover can barely hold himself back from reaching out to the bird the moment Marrow’s back is turned, but somehow, he is able to restrain himself, keeping his head held high until he arrives at the airship docks. The moment his flight is secured, however, and all that is left is to board and climb into the ship, he glances back at the town.

The crow is watching him.

Wordlessly, he holds his arms out. The bird alights silently, digging into his forearms with its talons, but there is no malice there; no, accompanied by the trembling, shuddering body, the glassy eyes, the frantic clicks muffled against Clover’s chest, it is clear that the bird is anything but calm, only needing safety and warmth.

Sitting in the back of the transport ship, he calls, “Let’s head back to Atlas.”

The pilot affirms his order quickly and lifts off, not even bothering to spare a glance at his passengers. Clover is thankful for it, using the privacy to cradle the creature tight in his arms, pressing a kiss against its head as he holds it close. He does not want the bird to fear. He shall protect it for as long as it wants to stay by his side.

The bird trills quietly but never pulls away, and the warmth of its body in his arms puts Clover’s heart at such ease that all the stress of their patrol melts away.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so, it begins

Clover does not know how exactly to feel when he walks down the hall, ready to have a drink with James. The general laughs and claps him on the shoulder as they weave through the austere corridors and head towards the officer’s mess, explaining how Winter should be there soon, the other Ace Ops had responded to his little RSVP, and a few other top-ranking Huntsmen and Huntresses were on the way, so it is going to be a merry night of sharing drinks with old friends and allies. “We haven’t done enough of this lately,” James says ruefully, nostalgia painting a teary glint in his eye. “Oz always said it was important to celebrate, to connect. Remember what we’re fighting for. I think it’s been far too long since I followed that.”

Before Clover can stop himself, he replies, “And Qrow?” for he hasn’t seen the older Huntsman since the debriefing from their mission earlier that day. There had been something a little off-kilter about the man, and Clover is unsure of what it is; while Qrow has indeed shown more openness to Clover as of late, there is still an air of hesitation, of distance, between him and the elder. Clover wants to close the gap. He does not know how.

However, that distance had caused him to bite his tongue when he saw Qrow’s eyes glaze over looking at an exhausted Yang and Ruby at the end of their raid of a Grimm nest; the man’s focus had been purely upon his nieces, watching over the two young women like a hawk, clearly checking for any injuries without wanting to be overbearing.

Clover had simply frowned when he saw that, for after a moment, Qrow had slumped over, run his hands down his cheeks, and allowed one hand to pat his breast pocket. It had been clear that there was nothing there. The action had surprised Clover- he knew he had seen it before, but he didn’t know what it meant. It had been even more surprising to see the level of grief on Qrow’s face, though, mixing with nothing but pure shame as his hands fell to his sides and he walked back to the airship alone.

Clover is snapped out of his thoughts when James finally responds with a shake of his head, a perplexed pout on his lips. “I wasn’t able to reach him,” he says. “You sure you haven’t seen him around lately in the evenings? I genuinely used to always be able to contact him, for better or for worse.” He snorts, a hint of sadness in his smile. “Honestly, I was the one who used to _avoid_ contacting him, before the Fall. He used to get so mad at me.”

“Where were you always able to find him in the past?” Clover asks, curious. He genuinely has no idea where Qrow may be heading in the evenings; Clover has not spent time with anyone as of late after hours except the crow.

James steps forward as they arrive at their destination, grabbing onto the door and holding it open for Clover. “In here,” he admits wryly. “I haven’t seen him here during his entire visit, though. It’s a little strange.”

“Didn’t you give him that bottle of whisky? Maybe he’s just drinking that.”

James appears almost mournful as he follows Clover into the mess, strolling over to the bar. Clover waves at his peers awaiting them at a long table at the back, Harriet already scolding Marrow for what looks like having stolen some of her food. He rolls his eyes, ordering a beer before turning back to James as the general continues, “I did, but I doubt he’d still be going through it; he always loved his liquor. Usually he’d be quite excited about getting a bottle like that, but he was a little ambivalent when I gave it to him. I hope he’s alright.”

There is a level of trust and affection in those words that surprises Clover; for too long, General James Ironwood has been purely focused on nothing but Salem and defending Atlas, so to see him grow so soft and kind for the other Huntsman and the children he has brought is still a baffling sight to Clover. It is unlike his commander to be so gentle.

And yet, when he thinks of Qrow’s face, of how vulnerable and small the man’s broad back sometimes looks when they have moments of reprieve during missions, Clover understands. There is something innately lonely in Qrow’s heart. It is easy to want to reach out, to hold on, with him.

The night passes in the blink of an eye, and Clover soon finds himself excusing himself as the sky grows pitch-black, moonless and clouded, outside the hall windows. He does not want to leave the corvid waiting in the cold.

James’ face is flushed with liquor as he calls, “If you find Qrow, tell him to join us next time, alright?”

Clover smiles cordially and waves to the group before heading out, feeling lightheaded thanks to the alcohol and the prospect of sharing the inane gossip he has imbibed over the past few hours with the crow. Before he leaves the establishment, however, he makes sure to go by the bar and pick up one of the mints in a basket upon the counter. The bird doesn’t like the scent of liquor, and he doesn’t want to frighten it.

Sucking on a peppermint drop silently, he makes his way back to his room as quickly as possible. When he gets to his door, however, he finds a guest he is not expecting; Qrow is sitting on the floor outside his room leaning back against the wall, elbows propped up on raised knees and head hanging low. He does not look like he is breathing.

For a moment, Clover’s breath catches in his throat, fear and confusion paralyzing him. Then, it is time to act; he rushes forward, immediately pulling out his Scroll, prepared to call medics and then Team RWBY, for if Qrow is sick then his nieces need to know. As he kneels down beside the elder, he places his free hand on Qrow’s shoulder, only to recoil a moment later; the man absolutely reeks of liquor, every quiet, ragged exhale only adding to the fumes, as if he had spilled half a bottle upon himself and drunken the rest in one shot.

“Qrow, what’s going on?” Clover murmurs, shaking Qrow’s shoulders lightly. He glances around the corridor; there are no other Huntsmen on the floor who Qrow would know, and Clover’s barracks are out of the way of the guest quarters, so clearly Qrow has been waiting for _him._

But why?

Qrow slowly raises his head, and Clover is taken aback at the sight of reddened ears and cheeks and nose, of puffy eyelids and traces of tears flowing from bloodshot, unfocused eyes. Qrow cannot speak; his mouth opens and closes and opens again, but no sound emerges. Clover does not need him to say a word, however. The shame and guilt and frustration is clear as day on the elder’s face, and Clover does not know how to soothe him.

Clover watches him for a moment, still reeling. Finally, he raises his Scroll. “I’m going to call Ruby and Yang, okay?” he murmurs quietly, trying to wear the most comforting smile he can. What in the world has driven Qrow to drink like this?

The Scroll is practically slapped out of his hand and Qrow cries out haggardly, “No- no, you can’t,” before losing his balance and falling to the side. Clover catches him in a heartbeat, freezing as Qrow immediately buries his weeping face into Clover’s shoulder. “You can’t tell them,” Qrow wheezes. “You can’t. I’m so- I fucked up, I- _fuck, I can’t-_ “

And then, Qrow Branwen, in all of his strength and grace and poise and deadliness, well and truly crumbles into Clover’s arms, the tiniest Clover has ever seen him, and begins to sob in earnest.

Clover has to take a second, allowing it all to sink in. _What the hell is going on?!_ But no explanations come to mind, so all he can do is retrieve his Scroll and coax Qrow to his feet, wrapping a strong arm around the elder’s shoulders to keep his intoxicated form upright. Clover feels completely sobered now, nothing but vague panic and clear discomfort in his mind, for Qrow Branwen, who has been nothing but rude and snappish at worst and clumsy and sweet at best, is weeping in his arms. He unlocks the door to his quarters; first things first, he needs to get Qrow out of view of any prying eyes.

He does not know what has happened, but even Clover can tell that something is _wrong,_ and if nothing else, he can provide a listening ear and a private place to weep. Clover does not know what burdens, what scars, Qrow carries.

For the first time, Clover hopes that the bird is not waiting for him outside his window. He simply wants Qrow to be alright.


	10. Chapter 10

The silence hangs heavy in his quarters. He leaves the lights off; the only thing he can see is the neon glow of his alarm clock upon his bedside table, the red numbers glaringly bright in the shadowy room. There is an analog clock in the bathroom that ticks quietly, droning on and on, endlessly needling into Clover’s brain, but he leaves it rather than turning it off, for it is easier to focus on the sound of a second hand tick, tick, ticking along rather than the trembling silhouette outlined by his tall window, the shape of a hunched man illuminated by the inescapable glow of the rest of Atlas Academy outside.

Clover brings Qrow a glass of water. “You’re drunk,” he murmurs, “so you should drink up-“

Those are apparently the wrong words, for Qrow only curls in on himself tighter. Clover falls back onto his bed, watching Qrow’s forehead sink low enough to hit the coffee table by the window; he crosses his arms and lets out a sigh, unsure of what to do. At least the corvid is not outside his window tonight. He would not know what to do if the bird, in all its loving affection, tried to fly in with this sense of shame and solitude hanging over their heads.

Clover has never been good at consoling others. His luck has granted him success in most things in life, so grief and loss are fairly foreign concepts; with the rigidity of Atlas Academy and the privilege and poise one must constantly maintain, there is little room for weakness, anyways. As he looks at Qrow’s shaking shoulders, for the first time in his life he regrets his luck. Perhaps if he had experienced suffering in the past, he would know how to lighten the load crushing Qrow’s shoulders so clearly into the ground.

Finally, he pulls up the other chair at the table to be beside Qrow. There is only one thing he knows how to comfort, so with little other option, he wraps a tentative, but firm arm around Qrow’s shoulders and draws the older man against his chest. What was normally a broad, strong back feels abnormally tiny, vulnerable, in his arms; Clover tucks his chin over Qrow’s head, stroking a powerful back that feels far too frail to belong to Qrow Branwen.

He pauses, feeling Qrow’s hair against his cheek. It is silky and soft- it feels like the corvid’s feathers.

That tiny fact is what finally eases the last bit of discomfort out of Clover’s heart. He is lucky. He will figure out how to soothe Qrow somehow.

“Do you want to talk?”

“No, ‘m fine,” Qrow slurs, hiccupping.

“You don’t seem-“

“I’m-“

“Okay. Okay. You’re fine.” He pauses. “Do you not usually drink?”

“…no.”

Clover frowns. This is entirely different from what James had told him just earlier that day. He opens his mouth to speak, to ask more, to press into this because there is something that just _isn’t right here-_ but he does not, instead biting back his curiosity and simply asking instead, “Any reason you drank tonight?”

A muffled sob, hot breath, the scent of whisky; it hits Clover’s collarbone in a fashion so intimate that he feels himself blushing, heating up. It truly has been a long time since he has had another in his arms.

“I couldn’t help it,” is the final, slurred response. “I tried, but I-“

Clover strokes soft, downy hair, holding Qrow against him firmly. “A drink now and then isn’t too bad, right?”

Qrow doesn’t respond, and Clover feels like he has made a mistake. He isn’t entirely sure what that mistake is. It is an unsettling feeling, to be so lost despite having the source of all the answers within his arms.

Finally, Qrow shudders and pulls away, frantically wiping at his eyes. Clover stands and grabs a tissue box from the bathroom, offering it to the man. Qrow takes one without making eye contact, blowing his nose with an exhausted huff, head lolling back to stare out of the window as he struggles to catch his breath, his intoxication clearly making everything far more laboured than it should be. Clover doesn’t think twice about reaching out and brushing Qrow’s hair out of his eyes. “Whatever it is, you know you’re not alone, right? We’re partners, you know.”

Even in the darkness, Clover can see the way anguish paints Qrow’s face at his words, the way his lips press so hard together that they are bloodless, just as drained as his spirit. “Whatever ya say, lucky charm.”

Clover’s hand recoils from Qrow. The words are spat with such vitriol, such loathing, that it almost stings. They are clearer than anything else Qrow has said that night, and it is almost frightening, for Clover cannot tell to whom Qrow is truly speaking. And as Qrow staggers to his feet, wiping his eyes one last time before staring at Clover with such lucid focus and _want_ that the younger falls back onto the edge of his bed, unsure of what to say, Qrow adds, “You dunno what it’s _fuckin’ like._ ”

And with that, he stumbles over to the window, yanks it open. Sticks his head out. Pauses. Withdraws, pulls the window shut. Then, Qrow goes to the front door of Clover’s quarters, opens the door, and slams it shut behind him.

Clover goes to bed a little while later, listless and weary, his own buzz having long-since worn off, leaving behind a mild headache and a confused, stinging hole in his own heart. He longs for the crow to come, leaving his window open just a crack. He needs the warmth and the companionship. It is embarrassing to admit how reliant he finds himself in these wee hours of the morn. The bird does not arrive that night, and Clover wakes up with a mild hangover and a slightly-runny nose, the only thing in his heart a chilly trepidation for the man he will undoubtedly have to face again that day.

He is worried. He also knows, though, that he will not get answers- not when, for reasons Clover does not understand, Qrow cannot decide who he hates more; Clover or himself.


	11. Chapter 11

Qrow ignores Clover the next day, and Clover cannot blame him; after all, Clover is the only one who knows the reason for which Qrow’s eyes are bloodshot and puffy, his skin sallow and pale, his mouth bitten and twisted into a perpetual frown from the hangover clearly ailing him without mercy. He turns down coffee, chugging water as if his life depends on it, eying painkillers which Ren offers him for his woes.

Out of the corner of his eye, Clover watches Ruby check in with Qrow after the briefing, murmuring, “Uncle Qrow, do you need to stay home today? You don’t look that well.”

There is an unmistakeable love that Qrow carries in his heart for Ruby and Yang; Clover knows this more than anything. That love is clear as day as Qrow flicks Ruby’s forehead, murmuring, “I’m fine, kiddo. You just take care of yourself and your teammates, you hear me?” with as much energy and life as he can muster.

It’s not much. The sound of his low, rasping voice, thick with exhaustion and shame, strikes a chord within Clover; no longer does Clover think Qrow is handsome, or alluring, or sweet in his clumsiness.

He just feels _sad._ The thought of having to work with the broken Huntsman- for something is indeed broken within Qrow, and Clover has no idea _what-_ sets him on edge.

But as they are wont to do, Clover must work with Qrow in order to protect their allies from Qrow’s Semblance during a joint Grimm raid, so he sticks by Qrow’s side despite the elder Huntsman clearly going out of his way to avoid the younger man all morning. Clover smiles, pretending as if nothing is going on when Marrow frowns at him in confusion when Qrow gets up and stalks away ahead of them all; he pretends as if nothing is bothering him when Elm comments, “Well, _someone’s_ gotten up on the wrong side of the bed!” while biting his tongue to hold him back from screaming out the words that so desperately need release. He wants to talk to Qrow, but he just does not know _how._

How can he, when he feels like the elder is about to break, and Clover cannot even remotely figure out why? After all, all that had happened was that Qrow had consumed a few drinks. Something deeper must have happened to elicit such a broken reaction, right? What had gone so terribly wrong that Qrow had grieved so visibly? Yang and Ruby were fine, so what could it have been?

He finally gets his chance to let out some of his thoughts once they are finally situated at their post; it is just the two of them travelling through this entry point of the caverns, following subterranean tunnels through an icy labyrinth made by Centinel Grimm. Qrow shivers, and Clover places a hand on his shoulder before reaching into his pack; he has a few heat packs and hands one off without question, long having become accustomed to the cold, unlike Qrow. “Here, take it. It’ll help.”

Qrow’s eyes soften and he takes the pack without question, cracking the gel that shall fuel the Dust within to keep him warm. As the man warms up frigid fingers upon the tiny plastic packet, Clover murmurs, “How’s the headache? Feeling okay?”

Instantly, Qrow bristles. “I’m fine,” he mumbles. “Just… just forget what you saw last night.”

Clover frowns, checking an indent in the wall. He can hear no scuttling footsteps echoing through the chamber, meaning the centipede-like monsters are all further underground. “You say that,” he says as lightly as possible, “but I’m still worried, Qrow. What happened last night?”

“I said, it’s nothing-”

Clover rolls his eyes, cutting Qrow off. “Look,” he begins, ready to launch into a diatribe which he has been preparing mentally all morning on how they are allies and how Qrow needs to learn to just _trust him_ rather than storming in and out of Clover’s life without pause, “I’m trying to-“

And he freezes as Qrow cries, “Stop it, Clover. It wasn’t anything. Nothing _happened._ ” The words are spit with such anger than it chills Clover down to the core, far more than the permafrost ever could; for when he looks into Qrow’s eyes, he cannot see any lies.

Qrow is being honest. Nothing triggered his breakdown the night before.

_Then why was he so ashamed?_

He just… doesn’t understand.

Quietly, he murmurs, “Look, Qrow. I want to help; I won’t tell anyone, don’t worry. But you can’t just tell me that you showed up to my room because ‘nothing happened’-“

“I can and I will, kid,” Qrow growls, pushing past him. He pauses, then pulls out Harbinger, flicking the trigger to extend the blade into the same deadly scythe which Clover has learned to fear, and for good reason. “I don’t owe you shit.” And as giant, worm-like Grimm emerge from the ground, busting through the icy floor and spitting venom and acid at them, Clover cannot tear his eyes away from Qrow, the elder dancing through the flurry of demons, his blade such a graceful crescent moon in the air that he leaves nothing but shadowy smoke in his wake as he slices through every monster before Clover can even draw Kingfisher. Qrow’s face is set into a stoic grimace as he murders every single last one of the Centinels, avoiding clicking mandibles and sprays of poison with grace and poise that cannot be natural. It is almost as if he is flying through the air, arms spread open, carrying him above his enemies so he can reap their soulless forms for good.

Clover sighs, cutting down the last few Grimm before reporting into his earpiece. “Alpha here. Just took down a large subsect of Grimm. We’re getting close to the heart of the nest. What are your positions?” The others rattle off their coordinates and observations, and Clover takes them in without a second thought; but his eyes remain locked upon Qrow, watching the elder wipe Grimm blood off his cheek.

As he walks past Qrow, he calls, “You don’t owe me anything, Qrow. You’re good at what you do. But if I’m going to be your partner for as long as you stay in Atlas, then I’d like to be able to help. You need to learn to let down your guard for once; I’m not here to hurt you.”

He takes a few more steps before he realizes that Qrow does not follow, no other footsteps echoing after his. So, he turns, gasping lightly when he spots the elder’s crestfallen expression, the man biting his lip and clenching his fists and clearly fighting to keep it together. Panicked, Clover jogs back to him, wondering, _What did I say? Was that too harsh? Brothers, it’s not as if I lied or anything, right? He’s a Huntsman, he should be fine-_

Qrow’s teary eyes say otherwise as the elder steps past him, not giving him time to speak. The bioluminescence within the tunnel and the lantern attached to Clover’s waist, hung right beside his lucky rabbit’s foot, casts a light upon Qrow’s face that highlights the pallor of his skin, the sweat accumulating upon his brow. He reaches out to the elder, but Qrow does not allow Clover’s touch to land upon his skin, instead dodging out of the way and scurrying ahead, face pointed downwards, almost green, ready to be sick.

Clover just wants to help. He does not know why Qrow runs like this. He hates it. _“You dunno what it’s fuckin’ like,”_ Qrow had said to him the day before.

It’s true; Clover doesn’t know what it is like for Qrow. He cannot empathize with a demon which Qrow refuses to name. Yet, Clover longs to know, to unearth, to understand what exactly is causing Qrow to look at the world as if it is out to get him- as if he is never safe from anyone, even himself.

The thought makes Clover snort wryly. It wouldn’t be inaccurate to say that Qrow is fighting everyone, including himself. But he doesn’t have to fight Clover. Clover can be a lucky charm as long as Qrow _lets him in._

And that night, when he welcomes the corvid back into his arms, he whispers these thoughts to the creature. He longs to grab a drink of whisky for himself from his cupboard, but he knows the scent makes the bird fearful, so he instead drinks in the warmth the creature provides in his arms, wishing it made him heady enough to wipe away the discomfort left from seeing tears shine, unshed, in Qrow’s eyes.

He is startled when he feels liquid upon his chest at the end of this rant. Glancing down, he feels his heart break almost audibly- he wonders if the crow can hear it, for it shatters him so deeply he cannot breathe for a moment- when he sees tiny red eyes close, rivulets of tears flowing from its eyes.

Birds do not weep; crying is a human emotion.

Clover holds the bird close, wondering just how much the creature understands, for if it does recognize the tragedy of the world, Clover prays that it has not gone through struggle, through trauma. Clover prays that it does not also carry the same burden which Qrow seems to bear, for he knows that unless something changes, he does not know how to help Qrow heal, nor does he know how to help the Qrow.

Kissing its head, scratching its cheeks, holding it close seems to help the crow, at least. It is gratifying; he loves this tiny creature more than he can name, and wants to do right by it. He wonders idly if loving Qrow would help the elder. He snorts; as _if_ he would ever fall in love with Qrow Branwen- or, more importantly, Qrow would never look twice at him.

As he falls asleep that night with the corvid nestled against his throat, he wonders why he feels such loss at the prospect of losing Qrow before ever even getting the chance to win his heart. It shouldn’t matter to him.

Yet, it does.


	12. Chapter 12

“Something’s wrong with him, General.”

The words taste bitter, sour upon his tongue, but the helplessness bearing down upon Clover’s shoulders feels far heavier than any guilt he might feel in telling James about everything. A part of him screams in resistance, insisting that he should not be saying this. What if something goes wrong?

It is a silly thing, but that fleeting fear threatens to spill onto his tongue, to run out of his mouth and shut him down completely throughout the conversation. He is at the end of his rope, and he does not know what to do, for he has never been trained for this; none of them have. He can slay the Grimm and combat Salem’s forces without a doubt, but how can he fight a monster which he cannot name?

James’ brows are furrowed, gloved hands clasped and clenched together as he takes in what Clover begins to divulge, and Clover feels more vulnerable than ever before; he quickly finds himself tuning out to his own words, staring blankly at the paint upon the windowpane behind James’ head, engraining every whorl in the wood and speck of dust into his mind, for it is easier to do this than to acknowledge the fact that he’s telling a story that isn’t his to tell.

He knows it is the right thing to do. Qrow needs help with _something_ and he won’t tell Clover what it is; that is the only explanation for the fact that Qrow has found himself drunkenly stumbling up to Clover’s room two more times the past week, each time crumbling a little more brokenly into Clover’s arms. Each time, Clover checked his body, his face, to see what injuries could possibly cause such agony, but each time Clover found that the answer was not a physical wound- it was _shame._ And then, the following day, Qrow always pretended as if nothing had happened; but that familiarity that had been building so slowly but surely, the amicable rapport that had been growing between the two, is completely gone. Qrow acts coldly to Clover now, and the distance between them hurts Clover more than expected.

Clover doesn’t understand.

His concerns had only heightened when Ruby approached him after a mission the day before, asking about whether he had seen Qrow in the evenings as of late. Clover does not regret allowing white lies to spill off his tongue, telling the young woman that no, he hadn’t seen her uncle, although the man had been weeping himself to sobriety in Clover’s room too many times now to call it an accident; Ruby had accepted his words without fail, her silver eyes darkening worriedly as she approached her older sister, presumably to discuss Qrow’s whereabouts after missions.

If even Ruby didn’t know...

James murmurs, “I’ll try and speak to him. He hasn’t been very approachable as of late, and I’ve never heard him be so distraught when drinking- Brothers know I’ve seen him drunk too many times in the past. It’s never been like that, but he’s never been like this in general, either.”

“You’ve noticed it too?”

There is a flash of pain in James’ eyes. “I wish we had been there for him on Anima,” he confesses wearily. “But preparing for Salem’s attack has been our main priority. I’m worried that something happened on the way here- something maybe those children don’t know about, either.”

Clover sighs, reluctantly straightening up his shoulders and saluting the general. James dismisses him with a quiet, “Thank you, Clover. Thank you for looking out for him. He’s my friend-“ and his voice hitches a tiny bit, a rare bit of pure, unadulterated emotion from the elder, “-and I want him to have more people in his corner. With Oz being silent in Oscar and Glynda still with the students of Beacon, there’s not a lot of us left as of late. We need to stick together.”

It is with that warm sentiment that Clover departs, heavy footsteps guiding him through the academy to his quarters. Night has fallen long ago, and his emotionally-taxed heart is fogged, so every movement feels sluggish- he presses onwards anyways, however, for he knows what awaits him. At least, he hopes he does. He does not want to see Qrow again. He just wants to see the corvid- perhaps it senses which nights Qrow is there, for it never appears in tandem with Qrow’s visits. He just wants to hold the bird, not the man.

The bird does not push him away, after all.

A sigh of relief slips past his lips as he opens the door to his dark quarters only to hear a light tapping at his window. Quickly opening up the glass, the bird hops in, shivering in that way that is so odd- Clover can never quite tell if it is from the cold, or from something else- but he holds out his forearm, allows the bird to alight, and strokes its head gently anyways in greeting, pecking its beak while it quietly clucks and trills and trembles in the warm room.

However, it is when he is in his bed twenty minutes later, holding the bird like a child in his lap as he regales the creature with his adventures of the day, that everything changes.

“My colleague, Qrow- you haven’t seen him here, but he’s been showing up drunk every few days,” Clover murmurs, running fingers down sleek feathers from its neck to its stomach. “I’m really worried about him. It isn’t affecting his combat yet, but if this keeps up, it’ll definitely start impacting our teamwork. We were just starting to work well together.”

The bird trills and twists its head to the side, laying its cheek upon Clover’s chest. He grins, holding onto one of its curved talons and giving it a wiggle playfully, ignoring the bird’s indignant squawks of protest. “I know. I’ll figure out how to help him, I promise,” he says. “I just wish I knew what was wrong. It doesn’t make sense.” He leaned his head back against the headboard. “I hope James will be able to figure out what’s wrong, since I spoke to him about it today. We’re all worried about him-“

And instantly, the bird’s talons grip Clover’s fingers so tightly for a moment he yelps, the immediate fear of broken bones in his mind. Claws sink into his skin, his Aura immediate coming to the surface to heal the wounds as the bird twists out of his hold. It leaps into the air, powerful wings majestic as it flies to the opposite end of the room, alighting atop the windowpane. Red eyes turn to watch him.

Clover winces and stands, shaking his hand out and flexing his fingers. “What’s wrong?” he asks softly, holding out his hand; the bird only begins to shriek and flap its wings, pecking at the locked windowpane angrily between bouts of glaring at him.

He is at a loss. What is wrong? Why does the bird want to leave? _Wait, can’t it open the window on its own?_ After all, it leaves every morning before dawn, doesn’t it?

It makes no move to leave on its own. Reluctantly, he says, “Okay. I’ll get it.” And he reaches out past the creature, opening the window and pushing it wide. The bird gives him one last look, angry squawks and strangled burbles escaping its throat before red eyes flash and the creature is gone, leaving Clover alone once more.

He does not know what he has done. He sits upon the edge of his bed, eyes fixated upon the windowsill, the light breeze causing his curtains to sway on either side; that behaviour had been so sudden, so _random,_ that he can barely comprehend it. All he had done was mention Qrow and James. That isn’t reason enough for the bird to have fled so violently.

His wounds heal. He slips back under his covers, pulling up the extra blanket for he leaves the window open, praying the creature comes back home to him. As he closes his eyes, he tries to ignore the want in his heart; the want to become that creature’s home, and the want to finally have all of this volatility and rejection around him put to rest. He is tired of being pushed away for reasons he does not understand.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Fall of this fic is coming soon, y'all. Prepare yourselves.

Qrow does not acknowledge him the next day; he ignores Clover’s greeting, avoids the coffee pot, and sits in the corner of the briefing room as far away from the holoscreen as possible. When Clover approaches him, already sensing an incoming storm, Qrow does not even blink, Clover’s voice nothing but air.

He knows Clover is there, Clover can see it; every time Clover speaks, his eyes flash red, proverbial hackles raised, fists clenching tight along with his jaw. His eyes remain focused. It is more of a rejection than anything, and Clover does not know why the other man can block him off so wholly when he has spent the last week crying in Clover’s arms from wounds which Clover does not see.

Later, when the meeting finally begins, Clover rattles off the daily missions as always. Qrow ignores him; rather, he openly goes to James, who has stopped in for this briefing, and announces that he will focus on performing perimeter patrols on his own that day. The rage is not even concealed in his tone, and the rookies are instantly on edge. James meets Clover’s panicked eyes with equal concern, nodded mutely at Qrow before beckoning the seething elder into the back hallway where they may speak without prying eyes, listening ears. Clover longs to go eavesdrop, but instead, focuses all his attention to the screen, carrying on as if nothing has gone on.

Thankfully, Qrow’s announcement does not disrupt the overall flow of the meeting, although Clover is indeed met with two very bitter, very threatening young women at the door afterwards; Ruby and Yang block his path, angry, cold stares watching him deadpan, waiting for him to share what the outburst had been about.

He does not need to lie when he murmurs, “I genuinely don’t know. I’ve been worried about him, lately. He hasn’t been himself.”

The unguarded, earnest nature of his words seems to surprise the two girls, and in moments, they sigh and deflate and step aside, for they can see just as clearly as he can that something is so terribly wrong with their uncle and no one knows how to help.

Before he heads out to the airship docks, as he and Qrow are indeed on the roster for patrols that day, he takes a detour to James’ office. Qrow is long gone, leaving behind an exhausted James, the general hanging his head in his hands and bearing a level of regret upon his shoulders almost matching the heartache Clover had seen him wear after the Fall.

“What did he say?”

James looks genuinely distraught as he leans back in his chair, clasping his hands over his stomach as he stares up at the high ceiling of his office. “I got an earful,” he chuckles. There is no amusement in his voice. “He, uh… wasn’t happy with the fact that we’ve spoken about him. Did you talk to him about our conversation yesterday?”

Clover frowns, shaking his head. “I haven’t seen him since our mission yesterday- this morning he was already upset. I don’t know how he would have even known…”

James grimaces, nodding slowly. “Well. He’s likely already gone down to Mantle, so you may be able to catch him on the normal route, although I’m not sure it’s a good idea today. He may want some space.”

“I’ll go,” Clover intones. “If something happened due to his Semblance-“

The general snorts at that, still as emotionlessly as before. “I know I told you to stick with him, Clover, but you’re not his keeper. You don’t need to be with him constantly- he has been an amazing Huntsman before you were a student, you know.”

Clover flushes at that- yes, he is very aware of his inexperience next to the older Huntsman, thank you- but he insists, “Still, there’s no point in causing a potential liability.”

As he turns to leave the office, he hears James’ voice hitch slightly just as the door closes behind him. “Just a liability, huh?”

Clover has to pause at the bottom of the steps outside of James’ office, lost in thought. Is Qrow just a liability? Is the only reason he ever worked with the man because James had told him to?

No, he realizes faintly; he genuinely does like Qrow Branwen as a human being, as a fellow Huntsman- as someone Clover would like to call a _friend._

The sensation is foreign to him. He does not feel this way towards the other members of the Ace Ops.

He smiles, wan- his heart feels stretched too thin, mirrored in his grin that feels more like a sneer. The other members of the Ace Ops also have never cried in his arms, have never opened themselves up to being so vulnerable with him, either. Qrow is special.

Perhaps that is why Clover cares so much.

It causes his heart to nearly leap out of his chest when he turns the corner and enters the main entrance hall of the academy just outside the docks, only to see Qrow leaning on a wall. The man’s fingers drum against his thigh, the wall, tapping on his Scroll’s blank screen, just as a way to pass the time. In his other hand is a paper coffee cup- fingers tap, tap, tapping away on the rim, the crinkled sides pathetic, crushed, empty.

Clover approaches slowly, intentionally making his footsteps loud from a distance. When Qrow finally glances up, Clover raises his hand in greeting; Qrow’s response is a flushed, but curt nod, the man tossing his coffee cup into the nearby wastebasket and shoving his hands into his pockets. He looks exhausted, like he has not slept in days.

Clover does not blame him. If he had been drunk every two days that week, it would take a toll on him, too.

They are silent for the journey down to the wall. Clover does not ask why Qrow blew up at him that morning, nor why Qrow’s hot-and-cold behaviour has been even more erratic as of late. Qrow seems to understand that he will not be questioned, and for a moment, the elder flashes Clover the most sincere, caring, apologetic smile Clover has ever seen, so much so that it takes the wind out of Clover’s lungs, leaving him gasping and bewildered long after Qrow has already walked ten metres ahead.

Hours pass in relative silence, only giving each other warnings when Grimm approach. Clover does not mind the silence- it gives him time to meditate silently, to reflect upon this whole odd situation- but he can see that it agitates Qrow to an extent, the man’s footfalls growing heavy and impatient between combat just to fill the empty air.

It is only once they have cleared a small pack of Creep Grimm hopping through the break in the wall that Clover asks him, “So, any plans for the night?”

“…Why do you ask?”

He shrugs. “It’s Friday. I realized I don’t know much about you, beyond that you love your nieces and you’re an excellent Huntsman, Qrow. And since I enjoy working with you, I’d like to know more.”

Qrow looks genuinely embarrassed, likely due to his earlier anger. He chews his lip before allowing his eyes to rest upon a foggy horizon line, murmuring at last, “I… I don’t have plans, no. Going to bed early today.”

“I know a few of the Ace Ops were going to the officer’s mess tonight- would you like to grab a drink with us? You’re always welcome to.”

“No! No,” Qrow cries, eyes wide and panicked. He freezes, then scurries on ahead. “No, I’m fine.”

Clover jogs after him, confused. “But-“

“ _No._ ”

“…alright then.” Then, out of curiosity, he asks, “By the way, how was that whisky James got you when you first landed here? I’ve always been curious about that make-“

“I didn’t drink it,” Qrow hisses, and suddenly, Harbinger is at Clover’s throat. Clover instantly raises his hands, a pleasant smile on his face hiding a racing mind underneath. “I threw it away.” He sheathes his blade after a moment, then looks at his Scroll; they have almost completed their patrol, and he does not need to spend time with Clover any longer- at least, that is what Clover assumes goes through Qrow’s mind. He does not know why he even bothers trying to figure out this enigma any longer; his actions are beyond comprehension. Why does he not ask for help to fight whatever is ailing him? Why would he throw away liquor like that, especially if he’s a drinker? And anyways, Clover highly doubts he has actually thrown it away; he has smelled like expensive whisky all week. It doesn’t make sense.

There is no point in asking. When they arrive at the airship at the end of their shift, Qrow mutters that he’ll come back on his own, leaving Clover alone once again.

That evening, the corvid does not show up- that is, until it reads 4AM on Clover’s alarm clock. He is awoken with the sound of what sounds like an actual body being flung at the window, the impact causing glass to rattle deafeningly in the windowpane. Kingfisher is in his hands in an instant as he blinks away his sleep and looks to the source of the noise, only to see the bird collapsed upon the windowsill.

Without a word, he rushes over, throwing open the window. He is quick to scoop up the creature and close the glass, holding it in his arms gently; however, the bird looks strange, eyes barely creeping open and beak stained and wet, not from snow- it is an odd scent that fills the air, and he has no idea how to place it. Clover can only gawp as the creature flies to his bathroom and, with a ridiculously fast shake of its head, seems to vomit into the sink before collapsing onto its side again, the liquid landing upon its head and feathers pitifully.

Clover does not sleep the rest of the night. With cotton swabs and soft towels and warm, gentle water, he wraps the bird up in a cocoon and carefully washes the bird’s feathers, removing vomit. He can only pray the creature is alright, and he will stay up as long as it takes to nurse the bird back to health.

When he wakes up, finally having crashed at sunrise, the bird is already gone. It is only later that Clover realizes that the strange scent was of liquor, and that the bird is far lighter than it was before. Clover does not know what to make of it. All he does know is that this realization scares him, more than anything.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> )))))):

Clover is exhausted, and there is no way to grant him any reprieve; at the very least, he wants to know if the crow is alright, or if Qrow has finally calmed down. He knows he will be left in the dark on both of those things, and that fact needles him into fitful slumber and wearying routine that do not allow him to rest in any way, shape or form, despite it being a rest day.

Clover’s one day off will never be enough to prepare him for the late-afternoon reports that filter through the Huntsmen’s wing, alerting him and his team of the suddenly-active Grimm nest they need to wipe out before the monsters begin to head to Mantle. Without hesitation, Clover is quick to contact the rookies’ leaders and Qrow, preparing for their join attack that shall hopefully be enough to crush the incoming assault. His uniform is thrown on, Kingfisher slung on his hip before he even realizes it as he strides down the hallway, pushing everything out of his mind except for the strategy that they must use in order to properly pinpoint the heart of the nest; he needs to act quickly, otherwise-

He steps into the smaller briefing room. Jaune is panting heavily, clearly having run there, fingers clumsily doing up straps in his breastplate. Ruby is clutching Crescent Rose to her chest, only slinging it back onto its holster once Clover enters the light, replacing her obvious fear with a pathetic projection of confidence; however, it is when he sees Qrow that Clover’s mind momentarily shuts down, mouth opening, no words spilling out.

Red eyes watch him, containing just as much distrust and discomfort as Clover feels for Qrow, for neither man knows how to face the other after the events of the past week. Clover longs for the days when he could just quietly support the elder, slowly winning him over; but after Qrow’s anger and bitterness, after the drunken stupors and the raging tears and the heartbroken pleas… Clover no longer wants to be near Qrow outside of work if Qrow cannot keep himself centered the way Clover needs his missions partner to be. Clover is not able to deal with both his constantly-shifting words- and now that the bird seems to be sick, too-

That is all a conversation for another day. No matter what happens, he knows that Qrow will always be able to watch his back, and there is no point burning bridges whilst they are still comrades.

The plan is set. Their comrades are organized, dropped off on the cold, unforgiving ice outside of Mantle. Dust charges are set to blow a hole into the entrance of the nest; more are armed and ready above the center point of the main cavern, the operatives waiting for the signal to ignite it all, praying that the collapse of the thick ice at the surface will be enough to crush and wipe out the vast majority of the monsters. Clover personally ensures all of his teammates are in position, one hand on his earpiece as Ruby and Jaune report the locations of their teams.

“We don’t have a lot of time, people,” Clover announces into his mouthpiece. “Let’s make it before the sun sets.” It is already sinking lower and lower in the distance, the moon’s silhouette beginning to grow more prominent in the partially clouded sky; they do not have any time to waste if they want to retain the advantage of daylight.

Qrow is by his side, his blade in hand, mouth set into a firm, resolute line. Haggard weariness shows in every pore, but Clover does not ask if he is alright. Qrow has made it clear that he does not want Clover’s care, so Clover is happy to put up his walls, turn to face the incoming foes, and go back into his routine of fighting beside a coworker, a teammate. Not a friend.

Any remaining concerns for Qrow, however, are quickly lost in the chaos which erupts the moment the blasts go off, an explosion of ice and screaming, melting black flesh flying high into the sky. The area surrounding the blast zone fills with vapour and crystalline shards so sharp it hurts to breathe; Clover tucks his mouth and nose into a raised collar and radios in, “Move out, people!” He scarcely has time to blink before a Sabyr is upon him, and the battle begins.

Howls and shrieks fill the air with the melodies of nightmares, Dust rounds firing off so consistently weapons begin to sound like clockwork. Clover prays that the sound-blocking barrier they erected in front of Mantle’s wall holds, for if the citizens hear the carnage only a few miles out of their gates…

He does not have much time to worry about anyone but himself. There are more Grimm than expected; Clover dances and dodges out of the way, using his weapons to wrangle more shadowy demons so that his teammates can strike them down. By his side, Qrow’s blade is practically invisible, whirling through the air with such precision and might that Clover’s mouth goes dry just watching it. He has no intention of getting in the elder’s way.

With the way Qrow has rejected him so wholly, he wonders whether Qrow’s misfortune would ever subconsciously begin to affect Clover, too.

Although they have done everything correctly, the battle will not end; Grimm continue to flock to the destroyed nest from miles, and soon, the controlled chaos has turned into an outright bloodbath. Clover shouts orders for foot soldiers to retreat, leaving behind only trained Huntsmen and Huntresses to fight off the incoming herds of Teryxes and Megoliaths- there are too many to count, too many to even _comprehend,_ and Clover cannot breathe with the air so thick and rife with acrid, poisonous smoke- all the while taking stock of his own team. The Ace Ops are aiding in the evacuation of normal infantrymen and the wounded. Team RWBY has taken to the air, fighting in blurs of red, yellow, black and white, destroying any flying Grimm. That leaves Team JNPR upon the ground; Team JNPR, Qrow, and Clover.

It is when the full herd of Megoliaths arrives that Clover hears it from the other side of the battlefield; the telltale sign of Harbinger extending from a sword and into a scythe rings through the air, mechanical gears instinctively instilling a sense of dread within Clover’s gut. He has feared Qrow’s scythe even when he considered them growing closer. Now, the blade is simply _terrifying._

As he takes everything in, however, he suddenly hears Qrow’s voice scream, “Look out!”

Clover rolls out of the way, only to hear a clash of metal against bone, a roar so loud that it seems to penetrate the skies itself ringing into the air. Clover looks up over his shoulder, only to see Qrow blocking off the tusk of a Megoliath from goring the space in which Clover had been standing. Clover can only blink for a moment at the empty space in the distance which Qrow had just been occupying- how did he get-

But a swipe of a Sabyr’s thick claw steals his attention and Clover must battle. He has no choice as cries from his teammates and growling, sickening roars from the Grimm overtake the world, surrounding him in a cocoon of noise so thick he does not remember what silence felt like; he grimaces and throws himself into the onslaught, protecting Qrow’s back from the maw of a Creep.

From above, he hears Ruby scream. Clover does not pay it any mind, ready to pull another enemy into Qrow’s path so he can slice it clean through-

Qrow is gone.

Glancing frantically around the wreckage of shattered ice, broken and protruding across the battlegrounds, he cannot see Qrow. A yelp of surprise catches his attention; he rolls out of the way and slices the tusk clean off a mammoth-like Megoliath, eyes immediately tracing the skies.

Qrow is up there, his silhouette breathtaking against the sun’s rays, catching Ruby as she falls. She is over two hundred metres away.

Then, he hears Jaune yell, “Watch out!” and before Clover can properly take a look at what is happening, he sees Qrow’s telltale cape and scythe cutting through the air with reddened steel and black ash. Jaune had been on the opposite end of the nest to Ruby. _What the hell is happening?_

Clover leaps onto the trunk of a Megoliath, racing up its spine; he digs the hook of Kingfisher into its flesh, twisting painfully from the temples all the way to the tail, ignoring the creature’s deafening screams of protest and anguish, for his eyes are merely locked onto Qrow. How the hell is the man moving so quickly across the grounds?

And then, Clover sees it. In that one moment, his heart drops to the icy floor beneath his boots, the sounds and sights of conflict raging all around him fading away into the background as his gaze tunnels in onto one particular figure amidst the fray. Distantly, he can hear Yang call out for assistance, and the figure jumps into the air, then vanishes; no, does not vanish, instead spinning and compressing and distorting the very space around it until nothing but a small, black creature remains, tiny wings paling in comparison to the beating, membrane-covered wings of the Grimm all around.

Clover knows those wings are actually fairly large- for a corvid, at least. He has seen them far too many times to think they are anything but powerful.

However, he has never seen red eyes flash, the bird spinning in the air as it streaks across the battlefield, dodging the Grimm with such ease it’s almost laughable; he has never seen feathers shrink and transform into hair, into pale skin, into a grey and black outfit with accessories adorning bony wrists and hands; he has never seen the way the bird’s beak seems to compress, seems to shrink back in on itself in the blink of an eye, leaving a mouth that Clover has seen sob far too many times.

The corvid- _his_ corvid- transforms into Qrow Branwen, and suddenly, Clover feels too weak, too exhausted, too confused to care about anything. As he strikes down the remaining Grimm on his side, the newfound silence upon the battlefield quickly overtaken by exhausted cheers as the sun finally dips behind the horizon, Clover feels hot tears scalding his cheeks, running down his face no matter how much he tries to wipe them away. He feels weak and vulnerable, whispering his orders into his mouthpiece so that Harriet and Elm can direct the cleanup, so that Vine can look after the wounded, so that Marrow can rally the remaining Huntsmen and Huntresses. He lies, saying that he’s going to check further in the nest, see if there’s anything they need to clear out in the future.

He does not look around him to grab his partner. He walks alone.

Once he is hidden behind rubble and gore-drenched ice, he finally lets his eyes widen, falling to one knee as the world spins, realizations striking him so intense everything seems to be going grey for a moment. He shakes it off- he doesn’t want grey, doesn’t want red, doesn’t want feathers under his fingers or a laugh sent his way, doesn’t want to understand why he is so warm whenever there is a body held in his arms, be it man or crow-

The only thing he knows is that, according to James and the Maidens, magic is indeed real in this world- but trust, apparently, isn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave a comment if you're reading along! I'm curious to see who's following and what your thoughts are now that we've finally made it here haha.


	15. Chapter 15

James asks all the questions in the world when Clover puts in a vacation request. He insists that something is wrong, that Clover needs to give him answers; he comes dangerous close to tiptoeing the line between pleading for Clover’s confidence as a comrade, and ordering the truth as his commanding officer, but in the end, James is left defeated, signing off on the week-long break being demanded. He has no right to withhold a vacation from Clover, for he still has far too many days left with which he can take leave, so instead, all the general can do is ask for one final time if Clover needs to talk as he pushes the signed forms back to Clover so that he can bring it up to the logistics bay.

Clover gives him no answers, mouth steely and will resolute. He shall not waver; not now. Not after what he has seen.

Once the papers are back into his hands, Clover nods, curt and stiff and uncomfortable beyond measure. He has felt the prickling of eyes gazing upon the back of his head ever since he arrived back in Atlas after the raid; his frantic footsteps had carried him, flushed and emotionally _broken_ back inside the compound as quickly as possible. When visiting James, he had taken the long way around to his office, then to James’, ensuring that he does not step another foot outside the building, for suddenly, he does not feel safe.

The moment he is outside, the crow might be watching him. Qrow might be watching him. Clover wants to weep at the mere thought. He knows it is foolish, but he cannot help it; it is too much.

It takes far longer than normal to get to the logistics department after the forms are signed, but the moment the paperwork is filed, Clover is allowed to take his emergency leave. For one week, he does not have to take another look at anyone, especially not any other Huntsmen.

In the back of his mind, he wonders whether that means that Qrow can no longer go on missions, now that his Semblance is left to its own devices. He quickly banishes that concern. What Qrow does is not his concern.

His heart leaps into his mouth the moment he enters his quarters. He does not turn on the light, does not want to give any indication that he has come back; he shall not remain here for long. After his bags are packed, he shall go to the most private place in Mantle he can find. He shall hide out there. Perhaps he shall read; perhaps he shall sleep a bit more; perhaps he shall even try out that game that the rookies are always playing on their Scrolls. All he knows is that he needs to limit going outside as much as possible. If Qrow sees him, the elder might think it is alright to approach Clover, be it in crow or human form.

The very thought of having to talk to Qrow makes his palms clammy with sweat, anxious jitters taking over his normally-calm and collected self, leaving him with naught but frazzled nerves as he packs a bag in the darkness. He shall take this week to reassess, to rethink. To learn how to pretend. He has always been a good actor when it comes to maintaining professionalism. He shall learn how to act when rejecting what his heart holds dearest, too. After all, if the work towards Amity is going to continue smoothly, he must learn how to turn the corvid away- to leave a drunken Qrow weeping outside his door, alone.

It is just as he is heading towards the door, bag slung over his shoulder, dressed from head to toe in non-descript civilian attire, that a knock echoes through his still, shadowy quarters from the window. Clover freezes; he knows he is hidden in the darkness, but he does not know how corvid eyes differ from those of a human, and he shall not find out tonight. Drawing up the hood of his jacket over his head, he pats his hip, ensuring that Kingfisher is still easily accessible, then opens up the door just enough to slip out.

He can hear the corvid wailing outside, pecking the glass harder as he closes the door. He does not turn back.

The trip down to Mantle is easy enough. He takes the long way down to the docks, eventually managing to catch one of the last ships down for the night. On the way, he calls an old friend from his time in Atlas Academy; they are no longer a Huntsman, and it has been a while since they have met up to share some drinks and discuss the happenings around the kingdom.

His friend takes one look at him today, however, and asks no questions, merely guiding Clover upstairs to the guest room and giving him an extra towel. Clovers takes it gratefully, sinking down into the desk chair and placing his forehead against cool wood, breathing in slowly through his nose. He focuses on his lungs expanding in his chest, in the stinging, frigid air that haunts Mantle eternally filling his lungs, simultaneously soothing his nerves and filling him with dread. He exhales, feeling his entire body slump forward, his mind finally opening up the box in which it has sealed away the events of the day.

Qrow and the corvid are one and the same.

The very idea is horrifying, but the more Clover thinks on it, the more it makes sense; Qrow’s initial animosity towards him dying down as he grew more affectionate towards the corvid- the way the bird reacted negatively to seeing alcohol, just as Qrow always avoids their gatherings in the officer’s mess- how he had completely pushed Clover away the moment Clover admitted to the bird that he had been talking about Qrow’s drinking with James.

No wonder the crow had bolted the moment that call about Ruby had come in.

Clover feels himself flush, a flare of heat coming over his face, burning from the tips of his ears to below his collarbones. _James wasn’t wrong. He hasn’t been seeing anyone in the evenings- he’s been seeing_ me.

He feels a strange mix of pure embarrassment and utter horror as he thinks back on the amount of praise he had sung to the bird involving Qrow, how he had spoken over and over again of his fascination with the elder; his fear takes over as he thinks of the ways Qrow has kept up the lie, how he has always left through the window after pulling up the bedsheet just a bit, rather than taking the door. Qrow has been intentional in his lies, and it _terrifies_ Clover, for there is no reason for any of this to have taken place. He does not understand why he has been chosen.

He does not understand why Qrow must taint those pure memories of the bird from fifteen years earlier, either.

It is only once Clover is in the shower, however, that the truth finally comes to mind- the reason why his chest feels so simultaneously hollow, but so filled with anguish at the same time. He balls his fist up and shoves it into his mouth, biting down, not bothering to care about the Aura that comes to the surface to heal the self-inflicted wounds upon his knuckles, as the first sobs filter through his lips.

He has always cared for the crow, that much is certain. It was a guiltless companion, something to which Clover was able to give his love to no matter what, without worrying about responsibilities and duty and missions. He could always just hold the corvid and know that it would come back to him once the sun set, and it would preen and coo and beg to be near Clover, giving him the warmth he never knew he needed.

But Qrow? Qrow Branwen, with all his beauty and grace- all his deadly elegance, clumsy kindness- all his nervous stutters and soft blushes and rumbling laughter, his ruddy cheeks whenever Clover held him in his drunken stupors that carried so much shame that Clover cannot begin to parse-

Qrow has fit into his arms, his work, his _life_ just as neatly as the crow had, and somewhere along the way, Clover’s eyes have stopped regarding him as merely a co-worker, as a teammate. Qrow is so much more than that. He had thought it to be friendship, but as his mind begins to conjure the sensation of Qrow’s weight in his arms, his scent, the feel of his soft, feathery hair between Clover’s fingers, Clover almost collapses with the intensity of the arousal that hits him like a freight train, blood rushing away from his head, leaving him heady and needy. It is not friendship he feels for Qrow.

But now, Clover knows with gut-wrenching certainty as hot tears mingle with the water scalding him from the showerhead that he does not know how to trust Qrow Branwen again. He cannot be his partner. He cannot be his teammate and encourage him any longer.

_I’ll have to tell James._

He lets out a muffled sob, biting down harder upon his knuckles as he leans forward, propping himself up in the shower with one forearm against the cool tile, head spinning as steam rises from all around him. It is suffocating. He makes no moves to escape the shower, however, grimacing, willing away his arousal and his want and his _heartbreak,_ for he knows all too well how foolish it is to wish for something one can never have.

…he knows he shall not sleep well this week. Perhaps he should invest in a pillow, a small stuffed animal- something to hold at night. Something to fill his heart.

He snorts. He has a week to figure out how to move on. He shall recover, as he always does.

_But where will Qrow go now?_

“Not to me,” he breathes aloud, glancing up at the ceiling, wincing as hot water falls onto his face, numbing his cheeks. “Not to me.”

And despite the heat of the water, Clover is cold.


	16. Chapter 16

His week is quiet and peaceful, and he cannot ask for more. He does not dare to.

For what feels like the very first time since the Fall of Beacon, Clover experiences a leisurely life. He sleeps early, wakes up late; he reads the paper and skips the news, focusing on anything but the state of affairs in Atlas while he sips coffee and eats fatty breakfasts. He spends his days milling about, reading articles and journals and novels he has been putting off for months and months after constantly telling himself that he’ll take a break tomorrow, when tomorrow never came.

These actions build up over time in different ways. Every morning, he feels refreshed, bright-eyed and ready to take on the world, no matter how simple that world in which he has confined himself really is. As the day wears on, however, he finds himself feeling more and more lost; without a precise mission, it is difficult to gauge time, energy, ambition. He wonders idly as he washes dishes in his friend’s sink when exactly it was that he began so fervently putting his entire worth into being _productive._ He doesn’t know what to do without his missions anymore. What else does he have?

_The crow._

And once those thoughts begin two days into his vacation, they cause a spiral so steep that he can scarcely breathe; it is a scant two hours before those thoughts drive him to a nearby store to pick up a small cushion. It is a black square, filled with soft down and bordered by stiff embroidery, the main expanse soft and sleek and smooth to the touch. It is about as large as his chest, with a heft to it that feels familiar, comforting.

He does not miss the crow, he tells himself as he places the pillow at his bedside and not upon the bed itself. He does not miss the crow.

But as the pillow creeps closer and closer to his actual mattress as the days wear on, so does Clover’s regret in not buying one with any red, grey, cream, to it. He cannot forget the man whose face has managed to occupy his thoughts for weeks, and now that both Huntsman and corvid are one, he cannot unlink the two. They are intertwined irrevocably.

It is such a waste. His heart had been genuinely making a little space within for Qrow Branwen. Now, he wants to throw that space away. He tells himself that he does. He does not double-check the results.

What Clover actually _does_ find success in, however, is rebuilding his resolve. Each time his eyes land upon the window of his friend’s guest bedroom, the same thoughts run through his mind: he shall no longer open his window, for Atlas’ skies are too cold at night to give anyone that opportunity to keep him warm. He shall no longer open his door, for his own liquor collection has been getting lonely without him, and there is no point watching others drink whilst he suffers, achingly sober. These thoughts are repeated often in moments of weakness.

…They are repeated often. After all, practice makes perfect, and anything can be trained into a soldier if it is repeated enough.

So, at the end of the week, Clover finds himself back upon the front steps of Atlas Academy with a lighter heart than he could have expected, but he does not know if that lightness means relief or whether it simply indicates the weight of his loss. There is a chill in the air- pervasive, sinking into his bones in a way that he doesn’t recognize nor does he like- but he brushes it off and steps onward, for he has a meeting with James to mark his return.

The general’s eyes are steely as he explains how mission rosters have worked out for the week. Clover does not react visibly when Qrow’s name pops up for solo work ever since Clover’s sudden leave request. When James asks how Clover plans to change the assignments for the upcoming week, Clover simply smiles and shakes his head, for there is no need to change what is already functioning well. There is no need to change around the cogs, to reassign the roles, to make new bonds form when sometimes, bonds do not need to be had.

James murmurs, “You need to tell me what prompted this, Clover.”

The unspoken command hangs heavy in the air. So, Clover sighs, relenting. He describes seeing Qrow turn into a bird and back, adding vaguely, “I’ve seen the bird around, but I never knew it was him. Why didn’t you tell me? Did you know?”

“I did know, yes,” is the tentative, unsure response. “It’s not exactly something Qrow or Ozpin has ever advertised, so I did not share it.”

Clover purses his lips, trying to bite back the unexpected surge of emotion that absolutely _crashes_ through him, for all of this heartache and confusion and _paranoia_ could have been avoided so neatly had he just been _informed._ “Did you not think I should have known, in order to effectively assign more reconnaissance-based tasks to him? I was not aware of this ability. Our missions could have been modified had I known.”

There is a flash of defensiveness in James’ eyes that quickly crumbles to defeat. “You’re right, Clover.” He is earnest, true. “We are all on the same team. I shouldn’t have hidden it from you- I suppose I shirked the responsibility, assuming Qrow would tell you himself. I guess he did not do that?”

“He did not, sir.”

“That’s odd,” James breathes. His concern peaks only as he asks, “But, why is it such an important issue, Clover? How is that related to your leave?”

And Clover slips back into his routine. He smiles. “It’s not, sir. It was just on my mind recently.” Then, he salutes and leaves, for his obligation is finished, and even his commanding officer shall retract a command if it will break their subordinates.

There is no peace, no warmth to be had as he walks down the tall, lonely halls of the academy, his footsteps echoing off the walls. The sun has set after his arrival back to campus; he needs to go to bed soon, for he shall be running morning briefings once again, bright and early. He makes a mental note to pack his coffee from the mess hall beforehand. He does not want to have to make idle chat with Qrow by the coffee machine. He does not know whether his patience or his smile would crumble first.

Idle chatter seems destined for him, unfortunately, as a familiar figure pushes off the wall as Clover reaches the top of the staircase. “You’re back!” Qrow murmurs, red eyes alight, lips curving into a genuine smile. Then, he pauses, quickly curbing his rare enthusiasm, shoving one hand into his pocket and running the other hand back through his hair, averting his gaze.

Clover takes a moment to simply look at Qrow, to take it in. The elder does not seem drunk. He seems perfectly lucid, his motions smooth, his balance strong. His skin looks better- cheeks ruddier, more vibrant, heartier.

He is here not expecting comfort, but companionship.

 _Then what are you doing here with_ me _?_

“I am,” Clover replies at last, keeping his voice controlled as he shifts through his pack, searching for his Scroll so he can unlock his door.

Qrow’s smile grows sheepish. “Yeah, I, uh- I saw your ship fly in. From the window! I mean- looking out the window.”

_He’s been in crow form and saw me. Got it._

“So,” Qrow fumbles, trying to salvage the conversation from the dregs of Clover’s silence, “how was your vacation? Anything exciting?”

“I just visited a friend. Took some time to relax from Amity. Nothing big.”

“That’s good- that’s… that’s good.”

Clover can sense the questions burning on Qrow’s tongue. He does not care. “Did you need something, Qrow? If it’s about a mission, we can go over it tomorrow.”

Immediately, Qrow’s brows draw together, the elder growing crestfallen at this clear rejection. “No, I-“ He sighs, shoulders deflating with the exhale, his meager energy falling away. “I guess it’s nothing much, boy scout.”

“Alright.” Clover finds his Scroll and unlocks the door to his quarters easily, turning back to nod to Qrow. “Tomorrow, then-“

As he looks at the elder, however, he does not see a man ready to leave. He sees a man with an arm stretched out, fingers curled as if desperately wanting to cling onto something, but fearing the repercussions. He sees the way crimson eyes widen, mouth opening to protest.

He is so, _so_ tired of this.

Before Qrow can speak, Clover adds, “Also, I’d prefer if you just use my name. More professional. Have a good night, Qrow.” And with that, he slips inside his room and locks the door behind him, leaving a shell-shocked Qrow outside in the hallway, alone.

Clover does not regret this action. It is better this way. Practice makes perfect, as they always say.

That night, the pillow which has stayed away from him finally ends up in his arms. It is a disappointing experience; while the weight and size and texture all match, there is no _warmth._ There are no eyes watching him, no soft coos, trills, clicks- there is no beak that could gouge his skin gently preening his hair instead- there are no talons that hold onto his hands as if they are something precious.

Clutching that pillow against his chest, the weight of- and _lack_ of- that touch _breaks him._

It is not because he has lost a companion, he realizes once he finds himself in a moment of lucidity, throat raw, eyes bleary. It is because his quarters are so damn cold even though the window is locked shut, even though his extra blanket is drawn up tight. It is because his chest aches, the weight sitting atop of it never enough to _fill_ it.

It is because when he saw Qrow, no matter how damn taciturn he made himself out to be, Clover still felt himself melt and _want_ the moment red eyes met his, for Qrow and the corvid he can become have both become synonymous with Clover’s nights and with safety and with the feeling of _warmth_ in his arms, and Clover does not know how to simulate that heat without a heartbeat, gently pounding in time with his own.


	17. Chapter 17

His bed is frigid that night. He faintly hears knocking at his windowsill at some point in his hazy confusion; he promptly ignores it, burying his head underneath the small black pillow. His boundaries are clear and he shall not jeopardize them, no matter how much his heart longs to.

The pillow is not very good in blocking out sound. Clover laughs bitterly when he realizes this; it is no good as a replacement for the corvid, either, so it should at least be able to offer him _some_ form of respite. It should be worth _something._

Clover wonders what he is worth once the clock rolls over to 4AM and he is still awake, still freezing, still alone.

He cannot find a position comfortable enough in which he may wait until sunrise, so he gives up at last on tossing and turning underneath frozen sheets. The shower is warm, safe; it eases the tension in his brow as he rests his forehead against cool tile, feeling hot water slough down his bare skin, surrounding him in a cocoon of warmth.

As he waits for his heart to begin beating normally again, for his shivering to die down and his chest to stop aching, his mind wanders. Qrow had looked heartbroken at Clover’s rejection, disbelief and betrayal radiating from those beautiful eyes-

_Since when was Qrow ‘beautiful’?_

Since… since always. In the back of his mind, Clover knows this. To him, crimson has always been breathtaking. It does not make any of this easier.

So, he pushes crimson eyes and broken hearts out of his thoughts, instead focusing on something else- the crow. It finally made sense as to how in the world the same crow had ended up surviving in Atlas all of those years ago, only to find its way back to Clover now; Qrow would have been a Huntsman already during that time. If Qrow had been visiting Atlas during that Vytal Festival when his wing had been broken, then that meant that-

His face heats up, the tile no longer enough to soothe him. Qrow had known him before their work began together. Fifteen years ago, he had watched silently as Clover had tenderly carried that bird to a younger Dr. Polendina, anxious and stumbling as he held the tiny creature in his arms. For three weeks, Clover had held the bird in his arms and kissed its crest and stroked its feathers, showering it with love and affection in the hopes that the bird would feel safe enough to focus on recovery. Thanks to that, Qrow has known it all from the start; Clover’s quiet anxieties and fears and insecurities, the worry etched upon his brow which he only ever shared with the bird in the belief that those words would stay with him, stay hidden from the rest of the political world of Atlas.

Has it all been just a joke?

He feels so _vulnerable._

 _So… why did he come back here?_ There has to have been a reason for his return- not to Atlas in general, but to _Clover._ There are so many people Qrow has known, _trusted,_ far longer than he has Clover. Clearly the rookies know, if no one bats an eye when he uses it on the battlefield; James knows, too, and those two have been allies for their entire careers, serving underneath Ozpin’s command. Clover is not the obvious choice by any means. It just does not make sense to him.

And why even bother in the first place?

His mind immediately supplies an answer. _He needed comfort._ For what, Clover does not know. But the longer Clover’s mind lingers upon that proposition, the more unease which settles into his gut like a lead weight, slowly dragging him into a squat upon the shower floor. He replays moment by moment the behaviour which has struck his as so odd from the elder ever since their first meeting- the sweating and paleness and nervousness, the jittery nature and distraction and grimaces of pain; he thinks back and he recoils, the pieces slowly falling into place in a puzzle too blurry to see the image. The outline is clear, however.

“He’s sick, isn’t he?”

An errant thought of, _How can I tell Yang and Ruby?_ crosses his mind, quickly drowned out by the cold, numbing understanding of why Clover himself has been chosen. Clover has always had love to give to the bird, at least. And Clover has seen how much Qrow loves his nieces, how they love him.

He does not want to be complicit in their grief if they lose Qrow to whatever battle he is fighting. However, his chest aches too much to even fathom how Qrow can expect this of him- how Qrow has the _audacity_ to use him as a crutch, as an emotional splint yet again, when Clover does not even know how to fix this emptiness within himself.


	18. Chapter 18

Two days. For two whole days, Clover allows himself to be weak; to enjoy a soft restart back into the daily routine, to leave the briefings to Harriet whilst he settles all of the reports and filed forms. Those two days are full of blissful solitude, almost more relaxing than his actual vacation, for giving his hands tasks helps to ease the growing dread creeping up inside of his heart.

He knows he cannot avoid the issue forever.

On day three, the hammer finally falls. There is a herd of Grimm circling Mantle’s wall, hiding out somewhere to the east; each day, they grow closer, bolder, trying to break through. They have already attacked personnel and civilians at multiple points. Atlas must dispatch multiple teams to guard the entire eastern hemisphere of the wall in order to sus out the heart of the pack.

And Clover must lead the Ace Ops to victory.

He dusts off Kingfisher and steps into the briefing room, staring at nothing but the screen as he explains their roles. He allows Marrow to step up and answer the questions from the general Huntsmen and Huntresses who have signed on to join them in their hunt while Clover goes to the back, drinking his homemade coffee. It does not have the bitterness he needs, but he spots dark and grey hair, a red cape, lurking by the coffee in the briefing room. His own brew shall have to do.

There is no way to partner Qrow up with anyone else for fear of Qrow’s Semblance, so he and the elder Huntsman lock eyes at the end of the briefing. Qrow is hesitant to approach him, his tepid steps so unsure that Clover can see Harriet and Elm exchanging baffled looks by the coffee machine; Clover pulls out his most nonchalant expression, gesturing to the door. “We have a flight to catch.”

“…Yeah,” Qrow says, clearly biting down what he wants to say.

Clover ignores it.

The trip down to their drop-off point is nearly silent- painfully so. Qrow attempts small talk, the anger from the previous weeks having simmered down into something that can almost be deemed as pleasant. He does not lash out, does not bicker nor pout; he is calm and put together, asking more about Clover’s vacation, commenting on the attack patterns of the Grimm they shall be facing, running through the logistics of the mission and their supplies one more time with Clover. This mission may last well into the night after all- their extraction points and emergency procedures need to be set in stone, and Qrow is still not exactly used to their operations here in Atlas.

Clover answers him as succinctly as he can, but he finds that it is almost a relief once they encounter a few stray Grimm at last. Amidst combat, there is no need for idle chatter.

Throwing himself into his work is easy enough even with Qrow there, he finds. Very soon, he is focused so perfectly upon the mission that he no longer finds himself minding Qrow’s presence; the body fighting by his side is just another Huntsman, just another ally. There is no history between them to be seen.

The more that this idea permeates through Clover’s skin, the more relaxed he finds himself. The tension eases from his muscles, allowing him to languidly enter combat like he never has before; it is almost as if he is no longer in control of his body, his instincts so sharply honed in on the ever-growing battle that he has no time to ponder why the man fighting by his side has hurt him so.

Eventually, however, it seems that Clover’s luck fails him- or perhaps, it is just Qrow’s luck that wins out in their constant struggle. The blizzard which sweeps in from the south is completely unexpected, throwing their plans into total disarray; it is so fierce and so powerful that even the Grimm retreat, skulking off back to their hidden nest before the brunt of the storm takes over. Clover calmly issues the command to not follow them, for there is no point losing lives that night.

He does not want to have to send the rookies out with shovels and body bags to retrieve those lost souls buried six feet under snow by the next morn.

There is no chance to leave, however. Before the communications crumble thanks to the storm’s interference, he manages to send out the map of access points on the wall. The vast majority of Huntsmen will be able to find the nooks and crannies, maintenance areas and tiny covered bunks, built into the giant structure. As long as their survival equipment is ready, no one shall be lost.

Clover guides Qrow wordlessly to the nearest hideout, opening up the door concealed upon the wall with his Scroll and slipping into the tiny room within. It is miniscule- more of a closet than anything, built so that the technicians can hide in case of Grimm attack or extreme weather. The elder follows quietly, too distracted by the reveal of these secret bunks to strike up another conversation, now that the battle has tided over.

However, that silence can only last so long. Clover cracks open his emergency sticks of fire-Dust-fueled energy generators which shall heat the room until the blizzard has blown over, setting them aside to pull out meal replacement bars from his kit. Tossing one to Qrow, he hunkers down upon one of the chairs and begins to eat, eyes locked on the glow of the Dust upon the pit in the table.

Then, he looks away. They are too red. He does not want to focus too long upon them, for the temptation to seek out the colour of fire-Dust reflecting in crimson eyes shall grow too strong otherwise.

He can almost hear Qrow’s air rising in his throat as he moves to speak, the steam escaping from thin lips nearly silent. Qrow does not say a word in the end. Clover does not know whether to laugh at the man’s cowardice or to feel relief at his respect of Clover’s boundaries. He cannot decide. Clover mostly wants to cry, but he swallows that down with every bite of his meal bar.

It is only once the world feels muffled and drowned out, the blizzard’s howls muted by the thick snowflakes coating the landscape outside, that Clover finally risks looking over to Qrow properly. The elder is shivering beyond what is normal, trembling as he picks at his emptied wrapper, eyes cast downwards. He seems thin, waif-like- as if he had been left in the storm he would’ve been knocked over, smothered before he could ever cry out for aid.

The words leave Clover’s lips before he can even register them. “If you’re cold, why don’t you turn into a crow?” Qrow freezes in place, eyes snapping upwards to look at Clover. He does not respond otherwise, the intensity of his gaze enough to make Clover want to brave the storm; Clover bites back his discomfort anyways, taking another bite as calmly as possible. “I’m just saying you’d conserve energy, wouldn’t you? Less body mass to keep warm.”

Finally, Qrow whispers, “I don’t know what you’re-“

“I saw you transform, Qrow. During our last mission. Stop hiding it.” He is almost proud at how strong his voice comes across; he does not waver, does not back down. “James confirmed it, too. You can turn into a crow. I’m assuming the children know, since you used to so easily to save them. Am I wrong?”

“…no.”

“Thought so.” He swallows down the last bit of his bar, his stomach already growling again, craving more. He needs something to fill him up. He feels so empty.

Qrow lets out a long, weary exhale, the weight of the world crushing his shoulders little by little. Leaning forward, he hunches over, burying his face in his hands. The voice that slips past thin, bony fingers is surprisingly weak, pitching upwards, vulnerable and exposed. “So you know about…”

“Yeah.”

To his surprise, Qrow stands abruptly, tossing his kit onto the floor. _“Fuck!_ ” His face is twisted into a snarl so feral that Clover instinctively recoils- he almost steps away completely until he sees the genuine grief in Qrow’s eyes, morphing into what can only be called guilt as he begins to pace his side of the tiny room.

For a moment, Clover pauses, mind finally catching up to the words that have tumbled forth so unceremoniously. They are still on a mission- there is no point causing discord between them.

 _What’s done is done, I suppose._ He cannot take back his words now, and with the storm raging on outside, they truly have all the time in the world.

So, he takes in a deep breath, straightens his shoulders, and asks the final question which has been plaguing him for the past ten days.

“Why did you come back to _me_?”

Brokenly, red eyes lift to find his, glinting fiery-red in the light of the Dust. The reflection of the generator’s glow is just as beautiful as Clover thought it would be, but the image is tainted by the guilty, ashamed tears which begin to roll from bitter eyes. “…I just… I didn’t know what else to do.”

Clover does not even register the movement. It is as if his mind goes blank, his body moving with a will of its own; for the next thing he knows is that he has opened up his arms, and Qrow has come to him, and the elder feels thinner than before, and Clover is- as much as he hates it, _brothers_ he hates it- finally, truly warm again.


	19. Chapter 19

Qrow’s tears subside within a few moments, the man clearly fighting back his emotions as he struggles to save face. Clover is grateful for that; he is too emotionally fatigued to have to comfort Qrow whilst he is still too overwhelmed to help himself. So, the moment he feels that Qrow’s trembling has died down, he releases the man and points to the opposing chair situated across the Dust light. “…you owe me an explanation.”

The laugh which slips past Qrow’s lips is bitter, knowing. “You’re not wrong.”

Sighing, Clover leans his elbows onto his knees, clasping his hands together. “Okay. Then let’s go.”

Qrow’s face twists, the man clearly torn as he tries to sort everything out in his mind. Clover gives him no leeway. He is too tired to do so. He just needs answers. He just wants to feel comfortable again.

Shakily, Qrow begins with, “Oz… gave me and my sister Raven the power to transform. We can turn into birds.” To Clover’s distrustful gaze, he sighed. “It’s for recon, Clover. I’ve done hundreds- no, probably thousands of special missions thanks to this power. I probably wouldn’t have survived without it, too.”

“Can you change at will?”

“Yup.”

“No cost to you?”

“…No. Just some Aura- it’s like using a Semblance, in a way.”

Clover cannot help himself from muttering, “Well, that’s convenient.” Qrow winces, but before he can speak, Clover puts his foot down, leaning onto the table. “So why were you in Atlas fifteen years ago?”

Qrow’s mouth opens and closes, no sound coming out; it is the same actions he always takes when he is overwhelmed. Any other day, Clover would be happy to accept it and move on; but today, Clover cannot back down, cannot let it go, cannot assume best intent and carry onwards, for those memories from fifteen years earlier of when Clover had one small thing that made him look forward to waking up every day have been tainted, and that is not something which he will allow to be ignored.

Finally, Qrow hangs his head, murmuring, “Look- I was on a mission, okay? Oz got some word of Salem’s spies sneaking into the Atlesian Military. It was my job to investigate secretly while everyone was distracted by the Vytal Festival, and… there were some hiccups.”

“Hiccups?”

“I got caught in a damned blizzard, okay?!” he cries, slamming an open palm onto the table, eyes shining with bitter regret. “It sapped my Aura, and then I got thrown into a wall and snapped my wing. I barely made it to… wherever-the-hell you found me, but Aura recovery as a crow is _horse shit,_ so I couldn’t change back.”

Clover sinks back into his chair, feeling his brow knit together despite his stony gaze. He crosses his arms and sighs, dropping his gaze to his steel-toed boots, currently digging into the insulated floor tiredly. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he breathes.

“What was I supposed to do?” Qrow insists, standing up with such force that his chair topples backwards behind him. Clover winces as it clatters against one of the metal bookshelves, but Qrow storms onwards regardless. “Just change back into a man once I’m all better, weeks down the line? Terrify some poor Atlas Academy kiddo who’s been taking care of me like their goddamned pet by turning back into a Huntsman?!”

“You could have acted _feral!_ ” Clover yells, standing up as well to remain level with the elder. He will _not_ be blamed for this. “You didn’t have to- to-“

Immediately, Qrow sinks down onto his haunches, running his hands through his hair. “ _Fuck, I know,_ don’t you think I know that?” he whispers. “You have no fucking idea how much I regretted not just finding James and hiding out there, or just biting you so you backed off, but-“

“But what, Qrow?” Clover asks. He hates the imploring edge in his tone, hates the vulnerability which he knows is clear on his face. He hates this _weakness,_ this _want,_ but all he can focus on is his need for _answers,_ for his heart has been stretched so thin he does not know when he will break.

Qrow looks at him sadly through his fingers. “…You were so happy. And I… I couldn’t risk it.”

 _Couldn’t risk what?_ There is clearly more there, but Clover instead urges him to continue. “Why didn’t you tell me about it at the start, when you and the kids arrived-“

At that, Qrow’s face grows almost purple, the man becoming surprisingly hostile. “What the hell do you think I was gonna do with _you,_ Clover?! You put handcuffs on my nieces! You were _not_ an ally! So yeah, _sorry_ for not immediately trusting some _Atlesian brat_ I saw for the first time in fifteen years right away when he put weapons on my little girls! Am I supposed to trust someone who does that?”

“You _knew everything about me!”_ Clover has to swallow back the bile which rises into his throat in time with his sobs. “I’ve told you _so much-_ “

“Time changes people- I would’ve thought you’d have figured this shit out by now.”

He cannot help but flinch, for the words are true. There is no falsehood to be seen- when he had first found Qrow and the rookies, he and the Ace Ops had indeed arrested them. They had been illegal entrants, after all- deemed a threat after directly disobeying protocol in order to enter the kingdom of Atlas during the embargo. No matter how sweet their relationship may have been when Clover was still a student, there was ostensibly no reason to trust the head of the Ace Operatives back then.

Looking into Qrow’s eyes, Clover can tell- the elder does not care what his reasons may have been. Clover has been an enemy from the start-

 _No, this is nonsense._ “You know that’s not true.” He keeps his voice calm, level. Qrow, in response, looks up at him, lips pulled back into a snarl, but Clover merely adds, “You knew I’d never hurt you. You showed up at my window that first night. Why would you have done that if you thought I was actually a threat?”

Qrow pales and bites back his words, silently righting the amiss chair and taking an exhausted seat. Clover takes the moment of silence to study the elder.

He does not know how to read this man- perhaps that is what terrifies him the most.

Finally, Qrow whispers, “I came because I needed help, okay?”

 _I knew it._ “With what?”

And then, to Clover’s surprise, Qrow pulls the chair up to the table and leans his elbows onto it, straightening up to the point where he could almost pass off as holding some air of professionalism despite his puffy, bloodshot eyes, his tearstained cheeks, his sallow skin and messy hair. He looks almost put together as he asks, “What has James told you about me?”

The strange question knocks Clover back for a moment, for what is there to say? Slowly, Clover relays everything he can remember; James has often spoke of Qrow’s talent and strength, his dedication to his cause and his nieces, his acerbic behaviour and his kind heart. Qrow seems unsatisfied with all of these answers, simply demanding, “Okay, what else?” after every single response.

Finally, Clover tosses in, “I don’t know what you want, Qrow- he said you haven’t been drinking with him lately?”

The way that Qrow’s face absolutely _falls_ as Clover says those words crushes his spirit. Instantly, his mind is transported back to every single instance over the past few weeks where he has seen Qrow drunk; the amount of shame the elder has always carried- the fear of alcohol when sober- the refusal to talk about it, to _see_ it- the pure terror at the thought of showing up drunk in front of the rookies-

“It’s not something you can just talk about with a potential enemy.”

 _“Brothers, Qrow,_ ” he breathes, reaching across the table as the pieces finally, at long last, click into place. How could he have been so blind? How could he have missed all the signs? “Drinking? Is that what the problem was?”

“I promised Yang and Ruby I wouldn’t do it anymore,” the elder whispers, voice hitching. He pulls his hand away from Clover’s without hesitation. “It’s been… rough.”

Clover has to swallow down the million questions which _scream_ to be asked, begging with all their might within his heart. Alcoholism is not something seen often in Atlas; he knows that it is often classified a disorder in more vulnerable populations, but in general, no one survives mental illnesses upon Remnant. Unless one is able to fight off the Grimm that inevitably find those suffering from emotional turmoil, then tragic, vicious death is often the assumed endpoint. Perhaps that is why he has never even entertained the idea of it being what is haunting Qrow Branwen.

But Huntsmen are different. In the Academies, Huntsmen are trained to be hopeful, to be positive, to look towards the shining future and to treat the creatures of Grimm as something more akin to game sport than actual threats. It is not out of cockiness, but of the unspoken necessity to avoid drawing more Grimm during battle.

However, if it is a powerful Huntsmen who is suffering, perhaps they would be fine; Huntsmen can fight off all of the monsters which come sensing a trail of heartbroken breadcrumbs, the seeds all sewn by depression and fear and-

_Qrow is one of the strongest Huntsmen I’ve ever met._

The chill that sweeps over Clover from head to toe is indescribable as he realizes that Qrow’s strength has likely never come from intentional practice, but from the need to stay _alive._

It has grown deathly silent in the small room by the time Clover finally murmurs, “Why did you start drinking?”

“Because of my Semblance.” At Clover’s confusion, Qrow says, clearly too exhausted to defend himself any longer, “I… my Semblance has followed me my whole life. It’s cost me happiness more times than I can count. It’s taken countless loved ones away from me, too.” His wry smile twitches, almost manic as pure grief fills his gaze. “Ruby’s mom was like that. We were partners, teammates at Beacon. I couldn’t save her from myself, my damned misfortune.”

Clover lets out a long, haggard breath, absorbing this slowly- but before he can speak, Qrow continues. “Do you know the one thing that’s always helped numb my Semblance? The one thing that can dull it- sometimes even _stop_ it, aside from just running out of Aura constantly?”

The sinking dread within Clover’s gut is justified as Qrow snorts, his voice cracking as he mockingly cheers, “Getting trashed. Woo! When I’m drunk my Semblance has never bothered me. Ever since I found out about that little trick, I’ve been drinking all the time- so make that, what, twenty-four years of daily drinking?” He sniffles, leaning his head over the back of the chair, covering his face with his ringed, trembling fingers once again. Muffled, his voice emerges as heartbroken sobs as he finally confesses, “But when I was drunk I got depressed, and I attracted more Grimm, and I wasn’t able to protect everyone. Not always. Do you have any goddamn idea how hard it is to realize that- that what you’ve been doing for so damn long to keep your loved ones safe is the one thing that’s been hurting them the most?!”

Clover tries standing up from his chair, reaching across the table. “Qrow-“

“Ruby and Yang are the reasons I made it to Solitas. _I_ didn’t do _shit for them!_ ” the elder practically screams. “I was too drunk and too damn broken-hearted to be useful. Do you have any idea how painful that is? To know that my nieces- my _little girls-_ are the ones protecting _me_ when I should be-“ His words trail off, heart shattering upon his sleeve for Clover to see. “Ruby _cried_ after she yelled at me about it, Clover.”

“So you decided to quit?”

Nodding miserably, Qrow finally straightens up in his seat once again. “So I decided to quit,” he intones. “Which is great in theory. Not so great when I don’t have any goddamn idea how to _do it._ ”

“We can get you help-“

“I don’t _want_ help,” Qrow gasps, voice hoarse.

Clover almost retaliates, but something in him begs him to pause, to think. Why wouldn’t Qrow involve anyone in his recovery? It is like an illness, and the man is in the most advanced kingdom in the world, so if he is able to push aside his shame and embarrassment-

Clover wants to gag when he realizes the truth. “You’re scared of hurting someone who tries to support you.”

Qrow shrugs, face sagging in pure weariness. “I didn’t know about your Semblance when I first met you,” he whispers. “I was terrified back then- I kept waiting for something awful to happen to you because of my misfortune, because I wasn’t able to drink nor control my Semblance, but you just seemed so goddamn happy to see me every day. Nothing affected you.” Snorting, he adds, “You were cuter back then. Kinda reminded me of the kids.”

Clover leans forward, placing his forehead against the cool metal of the table. Taking in a deep breath, he says, “So it’s safer to be near me more so than anyone else when you’re sober.”

Qrow hums in agreement. “Basically.”

The weight of the truth bears down heavily upon his shoulders. He has no idea what to say- what _can_ he say? What can he possibly do to make this a little easier for Qrow-

But something still does not sit right with Clover. “You…” He stands up, skirting around the table to meet Qrow face-to-face. “You didn’t know my Semblance that first night, though,” he murmurs slowly, voice low, controlled. “I told you in the mines. You didn’t know until then.”

To his surprise, Qrow does not flinch, yell, cry; instead, he flushes, the dusting of pink across the bridge of his nose all the way to the tips of his ears making him look years younger. “I…”

Clover kneels in front of the elder, placing a hand on his knee. “Please, Qrow,” he says, internally cursing himself for how much his voice has come out _begging._ “I just- I need to know. Why did you come back if you couldn’t trust me?”

Averting his gaze, Qrow finally whispers, “-warm.”

He frowns, standing again. “I’m sorry, what-“

“You’re _warm._ ” His face is burning a bright scarlet, almost matching the colour of his eyes, of the fire-Dust lamp upon the table. “Withdrawal and cravings and all that- it leaves you _freezing._ It’s been _awful,_ Clover,” he gasps, pushing his hair out of his eyes, shocked at his own words. “In bird form, they’re a little less painful. That’s why I’m always transforming out of missions when I can- it’s just easier that way.”

He cannot hold back the questions anymore. It’s all just too much. “But why _me_?”

“I just needed to stay somewhere where I wouldn’t be able to drink- where I could stay as a crow and not worry about losing anything. And with your goddamn luck, I would never be able to hurt you, either.” With a rueful smile, Qrow adds brokenly, “You once loved a crow. I… thought you might not mind again.”

_You once loved a crow. I thought you might not mind again._

_Brothers,_ how true that statement rings for Clover.

His Scroll beeps. Checking it, he reads listlessly, “Communications are re-established. Extractions will begin. We will continue this mission in two days’ time. For now, we need to get to the top of the wall.”

Qrow’s face mirrors his own- closing off, growing deadened with the task ahead. There is no more room for error. “…alright.”

Clover shivers as he leaves the room, feeling Qrow’s gaze lingering upon him. He has never seen someone swallow their grief so quickly for the sake of the mission.

_No wonder he has survived._

The thought leaves a sour taste upon Clover’s tongue.

If anyone notices on the airships back to Atlas that Clover and Qrow are dead-silent, looking more haggard and worn than if they had spent that entire blizzard outside in combat, then they say nothing. The duo is given a wide berth until they arrived back at the academy, where Clover gives a quick debrief and next steps before dismissing everyone for the day.

Before he leaves, however, he turns to Qrow. “What do you want from me, Qrow?”

“…comfort.”

“Help?”

Guilty eyes look away. “…yes, please.”

Looking up at him dolefully, Clover adds, so faintly he knows even Qrow can scarcely hear it, “What am I to you?”

“…I don’t know.”

The tenderness that floods the elder’s face speaks volumes, though, and as Clover turns on his heel to head back to his quarters, he knows that despite his better judgement, he will be leaving his window unlocked that evening, for he does not know how he can turn Qrow Branwen away knowing what he does now.

At least he has some of the answers, and he no longer feels scared to turn the lights on in his quarters. He is no longer scared to be seen. That shall have to be enough for now.


	20. Chapter 20

He spends the evening in anticipation, taking his dinner to-go from the mess hall just as it is about to close for the day. He has absolutely no energy to play the role of the kind, approachable leader of the Ace Ops tonight, for he is cold, he is weary; he scarfs down his food in the dark the moment his reports are completed and submitted, staggering off to the shower right away to warm himself up from the frigid blizzard chill. However, even that too is taken care of eventually, and he ends up walking out of the bathroom with loose sweatpants and a towel around his neck just as the moon begins to light up the night sky, drowning out all the stars from view.

The silhouette at his window beckons for his attention. He freezes for a moment, his fear instinctive, his hand flying towards Kingfisher from where it hangs upon its hook on the wall. Then, he relaxes, ignoring the adrenaline pumping through his veins which readies him for combat.

Battle is not what he shall face tonight. Heartache is more accurate.

The bird is at his window. Wordlessly, he opens the latch and allows the creature in, murmuring, “You know, you _could_ just knock on the door. No one will judge you.”

The crow squawks at him quietly in response, maintaining a respectful distance by perching upon the windowsill. It watches him through red eyes which are far too sweet to belong to the man who has managed to complicate _everything._

Clover sighs, pulling out a chair for the elder, as well as another for himself. “I’d like to talk about this, please.” When the crow doesn’t move, simply watching him carefully, Clover runs his fingers through his hair and points between the chair, to the window, then to the door of his quarters. “You either talk or you leave, Qrow. I won’t be used.”

_Not anymore._

The soft trill which leaves the bird’s beak is heartbreaking in its somber tone, but it finally moves, hopping onto the chair. Then, before Clover’s very eyes, the bird’s body glows a deep red before morphing into the tall, gaunt Huntsman he has grown to unwittingly, _unwillingly,_ cherish. Shame plays across those perfect, angled features as Qrow looks down at his clasped hands, leaning forward to rest his elbows upon his knees, one foot tapping nervously against the hardwood floor. He does not look up at Clover. He does not speak.

“…How do you feel?”

“Like shit,” Qrow rasps.

“How long’s it been since you had a drink?”

Qrow does not reply. Clover takes this moment to look, to truly take in Qrow’s image; he had thought that, based on Qrow’s calmer demeanor, the man had been doing better, perhaps, in Clover’s absence; he had given life to the thought in the back of his mind that perhaps Qrow never needed him to begin with, that the man’s colour could soften, that his cheeks would fill out, that his worries would decrease, even when the younger wasn’t around. Now, however, he can see all of those things to be false, the moonlight casting harsh shadows against his downturned face, accentuated all of the age and weariness and sickness that is plaguing the man from the inside out.

“Qrow,” Clover asks, worry beginning to blossom in his heart, “how long has it been?”

“…four days.” Clover’s heart sinks in his chest as Qrow begins to smile, sardonic and biting, the bitterness and regret evident as the nose on his face.

The younger leans back in his chair, clasping his hands over his stomach, staring at the high, vaulted ceiling. He had last had a drink four days earlier- but not since Clover had come back to Atlas. He had been drinking until then, but _until_ then he had been able to hold out.

“How have you managed to avoid it for the past few nights?”

Qrow’s lips purse together, clearly reluctant to speak. When Clover repeats the question, however, he whispers, “I slept on your windowsill when it got really bad so your Semblance would protect us. I’m fucking pathetic.”

The _shame_ which emanates from every pore at that admission is gut-wrenching; and yet, there is something in Clover’s gut that swells with a strange, sick pride at the thought. He is needed.

It is not an excuse for what Qrow has done. It does, however, ease some of the pain, knowing that he was not suffering in limbo alone. “You’re not,” he murmurs after a moment. “I… I’m sorry you felt like you needed to resort to that.” Putting on his usual, professional smile, he says, “If you give me some time, I’ll look up resources. Medicines, or treatment plans. There aren’t many from what I know, but I have full access to all our archives, including in the medical ward- I’ll figure it out, find out what we can use to help you with-“

“I don’t want-“ the elder interjects.

“-without telling everyone,” Clover finishes, smile remaining in place despite feeling just as exhausted as the elder appears.

To his surprise, Qrow perks up. “You… you would-“

“I’m not going to tell the world, Qrow. I do, however,” he adds, moving forward to mimic Qrow’s body language, to set him at ease, to close the distance, “think that we should tell James.” When Qrow opens his mouth to protest, he explains, “Otherwise, he’ll keep asking you to join us for drinks in front of others. That’s no good for now, right?”

Thin, waxy lips fall shut as Qrow’s protests die in his throat. “…fine.”

“Okay.” Letting out a long, heaving breath, Clover continues, “So. What do you need from me?”

Pale cheeks turn pink, the hue lighting up the bridge of his nose, delicate and pearly in the moonlight streaming in through the window. “I… It’s selfish,” he whispers.

“A bit late for that, don’t you think?”

Qrow winces. “…yeah, I deserved that.”

Clover shifts in his seat, uncomfortable. He has expected some resistance to his words- to see Qrow so broken up about the suffering he has caused Clover makes him feel almost guilty. “I hope you know that I meant what I said,” he breathes, running his hands over his face, frowning as his damp hair falls back into his eyes. “I want to help. That hasn’t changed. We’re allies, and… and you mean _something_ to me, Qrow.” He snorts bitterly. “I wish I knew _what_ , now.”

Qrow’s eyes are as wide as the moon as they look up at Clover, all torn, broken attention.

“But I… I spoke to you about things in…” _in a way that was candid, that was open, that is fucking humiliating to think about because I never expected you to be ever able to reply-_ “-not the most professional manner. And I’d like you to keep what I’ve told you to yourself.”

Surprisingly enough, some anger flits across Qrow’s face. “Brothers, Clover, do you think I would ever share-“

“You didn’t share the most basic thing with me. I’m pretty sure I have the right to be skeptical.”

The elder deflates instantly. “I… everything you said stays with me. I promise.”

Clover watches him, taking in a deep, long breath, holding it, then releasing it slowly, feeling some of the tension drain from his body. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay. That’s the best I can hope for.” Standing up, he approaches Qrow, pausing only when he is a mere foot away. “You never answered my question, though, Qrow,” he murmurs, looking down at the other man’s crown. The elder lifts his head, face shining in the moonlight; instinctively, Clover reaches out, placing his hand upon Qrow’s cheek as he says, “What am I to you?”

For a moment, Qrow does not answer; instead, his face immediately turns into Clover’s palm, nuzzling it the same way the crow always has. Clover both curses himself for not seeing it earlier, and melts, for he knows with that one gesture that the actions he has taken have made the kind of profound impact upon Qrow that Clover will never be able to full understand, no matter how much he longs to.

Then, Qrow says, his normally strong, husky voice barely audible as it cracks in shame, “…you’re _safe._ ”

Clover swallows thickly. He has been mulling over everything Qrow told him in that tiny hidden room for hours; that being a crow reduces his symptoms; that being in Clover helps even more; that appearing in front of his nieces after breaking his promises is more painful than _anything._ He can empathize with the elder’s plight. He can understand how all roads have led to Clover, the one person who can withstand the dangerous, unfortunate sobriety and the broken intoxication in either form.

Perhaps that is why he looks away, so tattered and broken-hearted that he suddenly wants to cry. “I’m… shit, Qrow,” he says, fists clenching tight as he draws his touch away from Qrow’s yielding face. “I’m…”

“You’re?”

He hates how much his words rock him to the core, eliciting tears unbidden into his eyes. “I’m more than my _damned Semblance,_ you know.”

And as Qrow staggers to his feet and watches his tears begin to fall, wide-eyed and horrified and frantic as he tries to calm Clover down, Clover can only hide his face behind his hand in shame, for he understands now- he, too, is a liar. He knows what Qrow means to him. He has known it subconsciously for weeks, ever since he started wondering what it would be like to give his heart up to the Huntsman- ever since he realized that his chest tightens in pain a little every time he realizes that there is no reason for the elder to ever look at him twice.

He is in love with Qrow Branwen, despite everything the elder has done- despite the magical thread that has connected them both, that has perverted their relationship to an oddly-intimate, wholesome farce.

That realization is choking, cloying; he cannot believe the audacity his heart has to swell up at the thought of it, the thought of _Qrow,_ looking at him the same way, looking at him without tears in his eyes and without drunken regrets and without avian innocence. Just… Qrow. The man.

He almost gasps, swallowing it down out of pure prideful spite than anything. He has already bared his heart enough to Qrow this day.

Qrow is upon him in a second, worry etched in the lines upon his face. “Hey, what’s going on?” he asks, grabbing Clover’s shoulders, examining him from head to toe. “What’s wro-“

“Do you need to be a crow to fight it off right now, or do you just want warmth?”

The elder pauses, thrown off-kilter by the question. “W-what-“

“Do you need to be a crow right now or not?”

Qrow pauses to take stock of himself. “I… guess not.”

“Okay.”

Without a word, Clover pulls Qrow’s hands off his shoulders and instead wraps his arms around Qrow, one hand holding the elder’s face close against the nape of Clover’s neck, the other pressing into the small of Qrow’s back, pushing into him. Clover knows his warmth is overpowering next to the elder’s body, too gaunt and frail from lack of sleep and emotional turmoil. He is intentional in his actions, holding Qrow tight so that his built arms can wrap around Qrow wholly, so that when he moves to sit back upon his bed, the elder transitions easily to sitting upon his lap; so that the perfect warmth which Clover has missed for so damn long can finally sink back into him, easing the weariness in his bones.

It is only after a minute of this that Qrow finally snaps out of his stupor, mumbling, “Clover, what-“

“You want help,” he said. “I’m happy to give it. But I want _this,_ if that is alright.”

“But,” the man splutters against his collarbone, clearly embarrassed beyond belief- _As if you haven’t been in my arms countless times before while drunk,_ Clover thinks bitterly, _not like you remember-_ “isn’t it more comfortable if I’m just a crow?”

“Sometimes, yes, sometimes no,” Clover lies, taking in a deep breath, inhaling the scent of aftershave and _Qrow,_ carving the sensation of Qrow’s silky, grey-streaked hair gliding against his cheek into his heart.

Qrow sighs, breath hot against Clover’s neck, but he eventually succumbs, curling up in Clover’s strong arms and closing his eyes to ignore his sobriety and his instinctive need to change that. Clover is happy enough with that- happy enough with the fact that his Semblance shall give the elder peace, and that his heartbeat does not betray his feelings.

They both know that when morning comes, Clover will awaken tucked into his bed, window up, extra blanket drawn up. They both know. And when it does occur, and Clover finds himself alone again, he lets himself chuckle ruefully and throw his head back against his pillows, for none of this is what he expected to be embroiled in when a strange Huntsman crash-landed on Mantle with an old woman and eight children in tow.

He does not know how to help the elder. But he shall try- Brothers be damned, he shall try. He shall try because he dreams; perhaps if one day, Qrow can join him at the officer’s mess and simply drink water while he drinks his beverages of choice, Qrow will finally _look_ at _him,_ too.


	21. Chapter 21

The routine is built painfully quickly; the first day, Clover leaves his window open, cradling a trembling corvid in his arms. The second day, Clover leaves his door unlocked, ready to hear it click open whenever the man who Clover shamefully longs for decides to enter; he keeps sleepwear in the room for the elder, always ready to hold him once Clover is done his work. Then, they repeat, and repeat, and repeat, falling into this rhythm that is so unusual, yet feels so _right,_ that Clover silently wonders why they never tried it in the first place.

Qrow is amazing throughout this first week, for he does not take a single sip; each day he reports back to Clover more haggard and weary than before, but with a glint of pride shining in his eyes despite it all. He is staying strong. He is not giving in. He is embodying the fierce Huntsman his nieces have always looked up to, and that mere thought is enough to set Qrow’s heart alight so brightly that it shines through his eyes, a glimmer of hope beginning to kindle molten-red depths the likes of which Clover has never seen in him before.

Qrow is breathtaking in his resilience, fortitude, strength. When Clover tells him that- tells him that he’s proud of Qrow, that he’s impressed and taken aback and incredibly awed- Qrow’s face lights up. For those few heartbeats, he goes from breathtaking to absolutely ethereal, and Clover cannot help but wonder if _this_ is what a healthy Qrow would look like all the time.

He is breathtaking in Clover’s arms, too. Perfect. Innocent. Ethereal. Clover never verbalizes that idle observation to the elder, though- those are for him alone, the shy, frustrated murmurs of his heart.

Despite this positive change in Qrow, however, Clover feels _disgusting_.

He knows that Qrow is simply trying his best. He can see the strain in the elder’s eyes, the fatigue deepening the lines around his mouth as he loses sleep and tosses and turns and fidgets and _wants,_ each day as the man arrives to their morning briefing. Although Qrow’s skills are just as strong as ever- in all honestly, they are likely improving as alcohol is flushed out of his system, as he becomes more used to fighting while sober, as he learns to push aside these cravings that have cursed him for so long- it still does not change the fact that Qrow is struggling, yet still putting on the bravest face possible in order to keep Ruby and Yang in the dark.

Even though he knows that this struggle is so deeply engrained in Qrow’s very soul, Clover still feels repugnant as he wakes up every morning to an empty bedroom. He may have been helping Qrow, using his Semblance and his warmth and whatever the hell else Qrow saw in him, as rigid and Atlesian as Clover has always been; but Clover can see his actions in no other light than a selfish one. He feels like a user. He feels such satisfaction every time the bird flies into his arms, every time the elder climbs into his bed, waiting for Clover to hold him; it is heady and so goddamned _warm_ that Clover feels himself blissfully ignoring the fact that he is trying to help the elder recover, instead relishing in a quality of sleep that has never been better now that the elder is here.

And yet, the space Qrow leaves behind always tastes bitter, sour. He wants to help the elder, yes- but he is also doing it in the vain hope that one day, Clover will stop being the body pillow and heating pad and good-luck charm Qrow needs to heal, and will start being a _person._

One wry thought begins to arise in his mind every morning as he readies himself for the day. He’s always been a number, a name, a rank, an ID, in Atlas. He’s always been alright with that.

Why couldn’t it have stayed the same?

It is not only his selfish desires that brings him secret misery. He lies to Qrow, too; he feels less guilty about this, however, for he tells the elder that he is working on mission logs and preparing briefings for far longer than he actually needs each evening. Qrow is always kind and understanding, his weary smile and drooping eyelids silently conveying his crushing disappointment without a single word.

Qrow will never push, however. When he had seen the small, black, plush pillow on Clover’s bed, he had asked what it was for- and Clover had told him the truth. The guilt in Qrow’s eyes at Clover’s response has been enough to prevent the elder from ever _pushing,_ ever wanting more from Clover than he is able to give. Clover does not know whether to be proud that he had been able to admit- even partially- just how much he cared for the man, or whether to regret it, for now Qrow is far too reserved to ask him for more, and Clover will happily give more- give _anything-_ to make Qrow better again.

His guilty conscience is always eased thanks to his trips down to the archives. His rank grants him permission to view almost all of Atlas Academy’s records, including the majority of their research; so, he goes down there each night and looks at anything and everything he can find relating to addiction and alcoholism and withdrawal, desperate to find the piece of the puzzle which is missing in Qrow’s journey.

He just wants to make it all a little easier for Qrow. He wants to see Qrow smile often enough that it doesn’t always feel like such a damn surprise when he does.

His evenings spent poring over documents and studies and journal articles do nothing but fill him with such deep-seeded culpability that he almost has to bite back frustrated tears every time he leaves the archives. He has always felt nothing but pride in serving Atlas, in holding up the banner of his kingdom, residing at the top of the world; and yet, now, all he can feel is bitterness.

How is it that his home has spent more time studying how to build weapons to fight others when they have yet to understand how to conquer one’s own demons? More importantly for Clover, how has his people managed to so profoundly let down the _one person_ who Clover wants nothing more than to protect?

What little research does exist _terrifies_ Clover. He worries for Qrow, for if what those papers say is true, then the chances of Qrow one day getting killed by his own _head_ rather than Salem or the Grimm or anything else… those chances are astronomical, and it makes Clover sick.

He does not find anything that can help Qrow, no matter how long he searches. That leaves Clover returning to his quarters every night, either finding a corvid or a man- both fitting into his embrace perfectly, filling the hole in his heart he never knew he had; but at the same time, it leaves nothing more than sour regret and disappointment upon his tongue, for Clover will never be enough for Qrow. Not in the way he longs to be.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on Tumblr now [here](https://faultyparagonfiction.tumblr.com) for updates and podfic releases and whatnot.

He has never known what it truly means to be listless before this night.

Clover’s eyelids flutter open, the man taking a moment to blink the haze away, details of his vaulted ceiling growing into sharp relief the longer he stares, the longer he gives his eyes to adjust. It is well before the sun is up in the sky. It is rare for him to be awake at this hour; in fact, ever since Qrow has come back into his life, Clover has been sleeping soundly every night. If it weren’t for his own mental strain and fatigue, he would have been able to say that he has never been more well-rested than since the rookies came to Atlas.

The mental strain is there to stay, though. The cost of being a refuge, for providing the stability and safety which Qrow needs, is Clover’s peace. He will pay the price any day, though. He has given his word- and his heart.

However, this night, as his eyes ease open and he looks down at the creature in his arms- it is a man this night, skin ivory-pale in the crumbling moonlight, the silver in his hair glimmering like starlight in the night sky- Clover watches a built, broad chest that looks far too fragile to belong to the Huntsman he has seen tear through monsters again and again breathing in, out, in, out, the movements so slight and relaxed that Clover almost wonders if he is breathing at all. For a moment, Clover smiles, his heart soothed at the sight, for in quietude, he is granted a chance to imagine, to play; he can pretend that there is no illness. He can pretend that Qrow has come here of his own volition, purely for Clover himself.

The fantasy does not last for long. That calm, slow-breathing chest pauses, starts. Thin, arched brows furrow, the wrinkle between growing more prominent. Clover silently places his forefinger between Qrow’s brows and presses down gently, smoothing out the furrow, as tender with his ministrations as he would be with the corvid’s feathers.

The wrinkle stays in place.

Qrow’s shoulders shudder and shake for a brief moment before he grimaces in his sleep, turning to lean into Clover’s chest more, hiding away. All that Clover can do is watch, expression impassive, heart raging with a storm of frustration and bitterness and want, for what is he supposed to do? Wake Qrow up from this apparent nightmare the man seems to be suffering? Watch him suffer? Hold him closer, push him away? What was the answer?

At least this week is over, and Qrow has some colour to his cheeks. He is eating a little more, smiling a little more. Clover has caught him tapping less, fidgeting less- his hand has been flying up to his left breast far less often, for he is slowly but surely forgetting the memory of the flask which used to live within. He no longer looks as pale, as gaunt, as withdrawn, and there is meat on his bones surely growing now that Clover is hovering protectively over him throughout the day, ensuring he eats full meals despite what the alcohol and lack of appetite is telling him. Qrow is getting better.

And yet, it feels like this limbo in which they are drowning will never release them, for Qrow does not know when the journey will end. That morning, he had asked a question which had rocked Clover to the core, one which still rings in his brain, one which still haunts his every heartbeat. Perhaps that is what is keeping him awake this night- perhaps that is what is keeping him awake at this hour, with the moon still far too close to its apex to warrant Clover’s alertness. He still does not have an answer.

Brothers, how he wishes he did.

Qrow shifts and grunts and curls into Clover, every inch of bare skin exposed by comfortable sleepwear pressed against the younger, desperate to leech off of Clover’s warmth. It feels hollow.

He swallows thickly as he looks at the elder, running his tired fingers through dark hair. How perfect it feels against his fingertips, how wonderfully the colour complements his own skin tone… none of those things matter. All that matters is that Qrow is here, and he’s getting better, and they’re moving forward, and even though Clover doesn’t have the answers-

“When do you think I’ll get better?” Qrow had asked earlier that day, red eyes misted and doubtful as he gazed across the expansive tundra from atop Mantle’s wall during their patrol. “When do you think I’ll be okay again?”

Clover hadn’t responded. He hadn’t known- he still doesn’t, for the research he has examined has never given him anything conclusive in regards to timeframes, so-

But Qrow had seen that hesitation, and smirked, and snorted, and walked away. “Yeah,” he had whispered. “That’s what I thought, too.”

And no matter how much Clover had tried to backtrack, tried to convince Qrow that it wasn’t a futile task and that there were going to be bad days but he’d make it through anyways, Qrow hadn’t listened. His mind had been made up.

So why are they still here?

Ninety percent of Clover thinks it is the longing for routine, for stability- for something in his life that will give Qrow a sense of normalcy and balance in this ridiculous world of theirs, already far too complicated with the mammoth task they have been given to protect the world. Seven percent believes it is likely due to safety, to fear, to worrying that misfortune shall fall upon the innocents of Atlas lest Qrow ever leave himself unguarded.

Two percent, a meager portion of his heart, wonders whether Qrow enjoys his company. He’d like to think so. It’s hard to tell, though, when his partner is constantly at war with the world, with fate, and with himself.

And one percent wonders whether Clover has become more than a body pillow, a good luck charm, to Qrow Branwen.

As he is trapped within these thoughts, red eyes open, pulling away from Clover. Immediately, Clover closes his eyes, pretending to fall asleep; he silently curses himself, for his fingers still twine with Qrow’s hair, but there is no way to hide that affection now.

He can hear the click of a Scroll, a barely-audible groan, the rough sound of callused hands rubbing against stubble over a clenched jaw. Then, to his surprise, he feels fingers intertwine with his, and it takes everything he has to not react to the tender motions as Qrow’s body leaves his side, fingertips lingering against his own as if unable to bear pulling away- before they do, however, he feels a feather-light touch upon his temple, warm and so fleeting that he wonders if it is a dream.

It is not, however. He hears Qrow whisper, “Thanks, boy scout. Sweet dreams,” as a blanket is brought up to cover Clover’s half-exposed chest, tucked around his form with such care that Clover almost screams.

As footsteps begin to pad away, Clover peeks out from underneath his lashes, feigning sleep as long as possible. He watches as Qrow shucks off his sleepwear, his pale, exposed figure heartbreakingly gaunt in the moonlight, before he is dressed again and he heads out the door.

Clover does not sleep that night. His bed is far too cold for it- as he realizes that fact, all he can do is bury his face in his hands and roar, for he does not know how to comprehend the fact that he no longer knows how to sleep without Qrow Branwen; he no longer knows who is the dependent one; and, worst of all, he does not know why Qrow Branwen has kissed him on the temple before tucking him in, only to leave him behind. Clover doesn’t know.

He’s so sick of not knowing.


	23. Chapter 23

He does not get any answers, no matter how much he longs to ask. All he receives for his woes are more kisses to his temple, more shifting feathers and skin, more murmured thank-you’s before Clover is left all alone to an empty bed and a frigid room each morning.

It is absolutely infuriating.

And yet, Clover cannot bring himself to say a word about it. He has always been an incredibly fast learner; he simply adapts, understanding quickly how to regulate his breathing, how to maintain the rhythm of his heart as he comes into consciousness each morning in time to feel the body he has come to crave so desperately slipping away from him. So, although he could very easily open his eyes and confront Qrow, he does not, for Clover realizes that something incredible is happening in the few weeks after their arrangement is solidified.

Qrow is getting better.

No longer does he look like a stray wind shall topple him over, nor does he appear so fragile a single word will shatter him. Instead, Qrow has colour and weight to his cheeks- a fire in his eyes, and lightness to his step- a humour to his voice, a patience which he had formerly only reserved for the children, now shared with the rest of the world. Qrow no longer looks like a shell of a man, desperately fighting to make it through each day. He really looks like he is healthier.

When Clover mentions this, Qrow can only smile, his eyes creasing so warmly as they look at Clover that all of the younger’s frustration disappears in the blink of an eye. “It’s thanks to you,” Qrow admits softly as they follow the children out of the briefing room one morning. “Sleep really is a make-or-break factor, huh?”

“I’ll be sure to add ‘body pillow’ and ‘personal heater’ to my resume,” Clover replies lightly, grinning, trying to play off the fact that Qrow looks so sweet as he says this, so _alive,_ that Clover can barely stay abreast with it all.

Strangely enough, Qrow’s smile falls, a tinge of doubt entering his gaze, brows furrowing slightly. Clover does not know what causes this. He wishes he did- he just wants Qrow to be okay again.

One afternoon, whilst on a cargo run to Amity, Qrow sighs as Clover lays down the cards in his hands upon the crate they have turned into a table at the back of the supply truck. This is routine for them- playing cards, trading light banter. Ever since Qrow had confessed about his drinking, these trips have become far more bearable, for no longer does the elder look like he shall snap at any moment in anger towards Clover, towards the _world_. Instead, it is easier than ever to reach over and grab onto Qrow’s shoulder reassuringly, soothing the man when he begins to look pale or dizzy or dehydrated. And now that he is beginning to actually look _whole_ again, Clover has enjoyed getting to see different sides of Qrow Branwen.

He cannot wait for the day Qrow is finally freed of his alcoholism. He does not know when that day will come, but he can only imagine with bated breath- the person Qrow will truly become after he is freed from this suffering will be _incredible._

Right now, however, Qrow is simply agitated, facing falling as he realizes Clover’s victory.

“I win again,” Clover says, grinning sheepishly. It is in times like these that he wishes he could turn his Semblance off; it feels utterly unfair to play games of chance with Qrow like this. “Maybe we should call it quits?”

Qrow merely groans, covering his face ashamedly with pointed fingers. “Shut up and deal,” he growls.

Clover laughs, for he knows Qrow isn’t truly upset. That in itself is such a huge change from the man he had known a month earlier. It is breathtaking.

With that thought in mind, Clover happily gathers up the cards and shuffles them, readying himself for another round while Ruby and Penny chat idly in the front seat. He can hear Penny laying question after question upon Ruby; if it were to Harriet or Elm or Marrow, Penny would’ve been told to shut up by this point, for the three of them would’ve never been able to answer so calmly. Vine would have simply begun to ignore Penny’s questions. It is heartwarming to see how at ease Ruby is instead, explaining her responses so succinctly that Clover wonders why anything has to be complicated at all.

 _Maybe it’s just complicated because we’re old._ The cards riffle through his fingers. _We’ve made things far more difficult than they need to be._

He envies Ruby’s straightforwardness, Penny’s earnest nature. He wishes he could be like that.

To Qrow, he murmurs, “Your niece sure is one of a kind, huh?”

Qrow’s expression immediately softens as he looks over his shoulder at his niece. The girl has recovered many weeks ago from that terrible injury, and yet, Qrow always looks terrified when he sees her heading off for another mission- that is why Clover has been intentional in trying to schedule her with the two of them as often as possible, after all. “They all are,” Qrow concedes. “Been through a lot together.”

Something about those words makes it sound as if Qrow is removing himself from the equation, as if he was never part of their story. _That’s not what I’ve been told about it._ “It’s a good thing they had someone to look up to and get them through it. Not everyone is so lucky,” he reminds Qrow, dealing the cards skillfully, praying to the heavens that he won’t get all the good cards for once.

It is a fruitless prayer. He could probably win with his current hand flawlessly. Based on how Qrow’s eyes twitch, his mouth curling downwards slightly when he sees his cards, Qrow is dealing with the opposite situation.

“I don’t know about all that,” the elder replies, focusing on his cards. Then, he looks up, ears tinging pink lightly as he mutters, “Thanks, by the way. For looking out for ‘em. You and your team.”

Clover shrugs, for it has not been any big burden to take care of the rookies. He is the one who is grateful; after all, they are capable and skilled, a joy to teach.

And, they brought Qrow to him. They inspired Qrow to change, which led him to Clover. For that, Clover will always be grateful.

“What good is saving the world without another generation waiting in the wings? Hopefully they’ll leave Remnant better than we left it for them,” he muses.

Qrow smiles, mimicking the motion of raising a glass. “Once upon a time, I’d have drank to that.”

Clover freezes stock-still, turning to look at Qrow. He has never brought up his drinking outside of his moments of weakness- he has never so blatantly referenced his desire to quit.

 _Brothers, he really_ is _getting better._

Something about that thought makes Clover want to weep with pride and heartache- soon, Qrow might wake up one day and find that he is whole, or at the very least, repaired _enough_.

Soon, Qrow might not need him anymore.

But then, he sees the twist in Qrow’s mouth, the shame flickering in his eyes, and suddenly, he realizes what Qrow is trying to do- who Qrow is trying to convince. “You shouldn’t do that, you know,” he mutters lowly.

Qrow’s eyes widen, panicked. “Don’t worry, I-I gave that up-“

“I _meant_ ,” Clover smiles, scanning over his cards, “deflect a compliment. Those kids wouldn’t be where they are without you.” He looks back to Qrow, genuine and sincere and open, praying that his heart will transmit to the elder. He is not good at this whole ‘earnest’ thing, not like Ruby or Penny- but he can try. “You’ve had more of an effect on them than you realize.”

The way Qrow’s expression twists, shatters- thin, chapped lips quirking up into a smile while his brows furrow in doubt, eyes shining hopefully, expecting nothing as a result- is enough to break Clover’s heart.

He sighs, putting down his cards and reaching across the box to grab Qrow’s hand which brushes through his hair sheepishly, trying to deflect despite Clover’s reprimand. That hand immediately listens to him, so accustomed to Clover’s touch, whether he realizes it or not; Clover sees it, though, biting down his heartbreak and loneliness in favour of squeezing the other man’s hand reassuringly.

 _You’re doing well,_ he mouths.

Qrow’s eyes crease happily, and for a moment, he doesn’t look as broken-hearted anymore.

The rest of the mission passes with only minor hiccups, leaving them back at Atlas Academy with naught but a few reports to write up. Most of them shall be Clover’s responsibility, so after he speaks to their transport pilot and arranges for the pickups the following day, he turns to meet Qrow, ready to tell him when he shall be back in his quarters.

However, Qrow is focused on Ruby when Clover finally finds them upon the tarmac. Clover steps closer, just enough to listen, but not enough for his boots to draw attention in the empty area. There is a strange look on Qrow’s face; Clover does not want to interrupt, does not want to break him down.

“Hey, kiddo,” Qrow murmurs, looking at Ruby carefully, “you’re happy here, right?”

Ruby frowns, analyzing his expression. She appears to find what she is looking for fairly quickly, softening in the blink of an eye. “Of course!” she chirps. “I have Yang here with me, and my teammates and friends. And I have you.”

Qrow starts, but doesn’t say a word.

Ruby chuckles wryly, clasping her hands behind her back as she leans over to him. “You’re doing amazing, Uncle Qrow,” she says gently.

“Wh-whaddya mean, Ruby-“

“We saw you get rid of your flask when we got to Atlas,” she explains. “I know it must be really hard, but Yang and I talk about it all the time, y’know? We’re so proud of you.” And with that, she tenderly wraps her arms around his waist, pressing her cheek against his chest, grinning like a fool as her uncle returns the embrace wordlessly.

Clover can see his shoulders trembling. _Time to do those reports quickly, I guess._

After finishing everything up in record time (and delegating the last two reports to Elm, much to her chagrin) Clover finds himself seated on his bed in his sleepwear, ready to welcome Qrow in. He does not know what state Qrow will be in after Ruby’s confession to him.

All he _does_ know is that Clover needs to reinforce Ruby’s words, now more than ever. He needs Qrow to understand just how incredible he is- maybe if they all repeat it enough, Qrow will finally believe them.

So, when Qrow arrives at his door that day, getting changed into his own sleepwear in the bathroom and re-emerging within minutes, his exhaustion from the day’s events setting in, Clover is waiting. He holds his arms open. “I overheard what Ruby said to you,” he says simply. “I told you- you’ve done right by them.”

Those words make Qrow crumble, the man’s expression scrunching together in a pathetic attempt to hold back the tears. He is able to do it, just barely, but still, he enters Clover’s embrace without a word, and the two crawl into bed just as usual.

Slumber always comes easily with Qrow, whether he wants it to or not; just as easy, however, is his awakening. The moment Qrow begins to shift, Clover snaps into alertness, mentally going through the checklist he has prepared for himself each morning, ensuring that he is calm and ready to maintain his façade of slumber while Qrow leaves him.

Before Qrow can leave this night- or early morning, as it may be- Clover finds himself opening his eyes despite every cell in his body screaming at him to just stay quiet, to play pretend, he’s gotten so good at pretend, why is he ruining it-

“Stay,” Clover murmurs, grabbing onto Qrow’s sleeve before the elder can slip out of bed.

The alarm which wracks Qrow’s entire body is palpable, but Clover has had enough. He is tired of waiting, of wanting, of not saying a word and pushing his own heart to the side because he doesn’t want to risk breaking Qrow. Qrow is stronger now.

Clover cannot carry both of their hearts forever. He’s so, so tired.

“Stay,” he repeats, tugging Qrow’s wrist slightly. “I won’t let you run away anymore.”

“No,” Qrow rasps, voice hoarse and confused. “I can’t- I have to-“

“Have to _nothing,_ Qrow,” Clover insists. “You know why?”

Qrow pauses, red eyes glistening in the moonlight.

Clover smiles, reaching up and brushing Qrow’s hair out of his face with his other hand. “Because I’m proud of you, Qrow. And you deserve to get a full night’s sleep for once. Wasn’t it you who said sleep matters?”

Qrow’s mouth opens feebly. “B-but-“

“But what?” Clover asks, tugging the elder more firmly back towards him. “Your luck? Your Semblance can try its hardest, but it won’t win, Qrow. Mine’s stronger than ever.” At Qrow’s confused look, Clover can only shrug, murmuring, “I sleep better with you here, too.”

Qrow flushes at that, looking to the side. “I- Clover, shit, I-“

But Clover has had enough of this, enough of dancing around and pretending like he is a kind man. He is selfish. He always has been. One does not become the leader of Atlas’ top-ranking military unit thanks to empathy and selflessness, after all.

So, before Qrow can try and run, Clover leans over and kisses Qrow’s temple, just as Qrow has done every night for weeks.

The elder is frozen, but when Clover tries to guide him back under the covers, he listens, his body pliant and willing. Without a word, Clover brings him back into his arms, tucking Qrow’s head under his chin, murmuring, “I’ll wake you up in time, don’t worry. No one will know. Just sleep well, okay?” He does not say anything about the shuddering breath Qrow releases, nor the wetness upon his collarbone from Qrow’s tears. He simply closes his eyes, and sleeps peacefully.

And in the morning, early as it may be, crimson opens and looks back at him, bleary and puffy and rested; and Clover realizes with a tiny, awed smile that this is all he has ever wanted.


	24. Chapter 24

They do not speak a word of what has happened between them.

They both know everything is different now. There is no going back, after all- how could they possibly pretend like they are just colleagues, just partners, just two people working together to help soothe wounds which may never be properly healed?

Clover does not say a word, happy to simply wait. He has taken the first step. It is Qrow’s turn to reciprocate.

 _Brothers,_ how he prays that Qrow will reciprocate.

... _but what if he doesn’t?_

Clover has never felt more uneasy about his luck in his life. He does not know whether his Semblance could ever be powerful enough to sway Qrow’s heart in his favour. After all, there is always the undeniable fear niggling at the back of his min- creeping, pervasive- telling him exactly how he will never be good enough, how he will never be strong enough- that he will never be _what Qrow needs._

Regardless of love or like or lust or simple _comfort,_ Qrow needs him for now. That is enough. It has to be.

Missions are quiet between them. They fight alongside one another, but that is it. Information is shared on a need-to-know basis, and the others who are assigned with them on tasks clearly grow concerned by the silence, and yet… Clover does not fight it, does not mind it. After all, every time Qrow sees him, his face flushes just barely, and the colour of rosy ears and averting crimson is only matched by the way that thin lips quirk up ever so slightly whenever Clover murmurs at the end of the day, “Good work. I’m proud of you, Qrow.”

He no longer fights back, protests, pushes Clover away. Qrow has begun to internalize it, too. He is doing well. He is doing _phenomenally._ Clover is genuinely proud, and happier for it, too.

Most days, his bed is cold when he awakens. And yet, there is the odd day, here and there, when he finds a large mass of ruffles and feathers upon the second pillow when he opens his eyes, and the feeling of that powerful beak tenderly combing through his hair as he wakes up- knowing that this is _Qrow,_ that _Qrow Branwen_ is doing this, that _the man he loves_ has _stayed-_

Hope is real. He does not know whether he deserves it. He does not know whether his longing shall ever bear fruit. He holds onto it anyways.


	25. Chapter 25

Qrow sits in his bedroom. He stares at something, Clover realizes as he exits his bathroom, running a towel through his damp hair; in the darkness of the fresh nightfall, however, it is impossible to tell what exactly the other man is doing, for the moon’s cycle has left but a sliver of silver in the sky, and his chambers have been left cast in naught but shadow. Whatever light does remain from the moon and the stars streams through his window in a thin line, striking just the edge of Qrow’s back, his shoulders, his head; they are strong, fuller than before, more meat on the elder’s bones since his lowest point in Atlas. Dark hair seems to mirror the sky, shimmering like starlight in the moon’s reflection, illuminating the room in such a way that Clover can only focus upon Qrow, and nothing else. Qrow is all he has truly seen for quite a while now, whether Clover can admit it or not.

He does admit it. He knows where his heart belongs far too well.

However, it is due to his fixation, his infatuation, that he does not see what it is which Qrow is so focused upon until it is too late- until a hand has reached out, grabbing onto a glass filled with dark liquid, raising it up to the light to scatter golden beams across Clover’s wall.

“Don’t do it,” he whispers before he can stop himself.

“I thought you said I was better now,” is the hoarse reply.

 _I didn’t say you were healed,_ is the silent assertion. It hangs far too heavy over both of them, cowing their shoulders with its weight. Clover does not know what ‘better’ looks like.

He assumes, however, that being freed from the bindings of addiction would mean that Qrow no longer would cry in his arms at night when the cravings and the anxiety brought in accompaniment grew too powerful. If he is correct, then no, Qrow is not healed- better, yes, but ‘healed’ is too much of a stretch, a goal so far away upon the horizon that he cannot even see it in the distance upon flat terrain.

Without a word, Clover shrugs on comfortable clothing and shoes, then walks over to the elder. The glass is removed from Qrow’s hand. Clover replaces it with his own, twining their fingers, squeezing as he reaches over and dumps the liquor down the sink. He shall get rid of his own alcohol collection, he realizes; or perhaps he shall give it to someone for safekeeping. Vine wouldn’t mind, and with his minimalist nature, he is sure to have room. Either way, Clover cannot keep it here. Not now.

For the time being, Clover simply tugs Qrow to his feet and pulls him to the door. Qrow attempts to extricate his hand from the younger, but Clover holds tight. He shall not let Qrow go- not anymore.

They are halfway down the stairwell leading to a larger hall when Qrow forcefully stops Clover, finally utilising the strength he usually saves for the battlefield in favour of planting himself firmly down, the force of his conviction enough to make Clover lose his balance on the steps. “Let go,” Qrow whispers, voice utterly defeated. “I just-“

“I promised you,” Clover responds without missing a beat. “I promised I’d be there.”

There is a hint of shame accompanied by pink in his cheeks. “…People will see.”

Clover glances down to their clasped palms and sighs. That is a fair point- he cannot deny that if anyone sees them, the ensuing talk would throw a wrench into the private intimacy afforded by their nightly sessions. Taking in a deep breath, Clover unzips his sweater, holding the collar open with one hand. “Get in.”

Crimson eyes pop open in surprise and flustered annoyance. “I- excuse me, what the hell-“

“Turn into a crow and hop in.” When Qrow simply gawps at him, Clover climbs back up the steps to stand beside Qrow- to grab his other hand, squeezing gently. “I’m not going to let you do this to yourself, Qrow. You always say it’s not as bad when you’re a crow.”

Guilt flitters across the elder’s face. “I’ve been a crow every night this week-“

“Because you’ve needed it. That’s okay.” _It’s not._ Clover shall not say that, though- he has found that the elder fits in his arms far better than the corvid ever shall, and there is a certain sense of loss he feels every night he awakens with a beak preening his hair rather than long, callused fingers.

It is selfish, but he is a selfish man. However, he is a selfish man who still wants to see Qrow smile for once without looking so empty inside, so he shall shove his desires aside for now. If Qrow needs to be a bird, then so be it.

Taking a nervous look around, Qrow finally sighs and relents, the world shifting for a moment. Clover closes his eyes whenever the elder transforms; although it is strangely beautiful, the way hair shortens into soft feathers and fingers elongate into wingtips- the sight of Qrow’s transfiguration into corvid does nothing but bring up acid in Clover’s mouth.

The memory of that battle, of seeing Qrow transform for the first time, of being _so thoroughly betrayed-_ it still haunts him. He does not know if he will ever forget that heartache, the one thing which tore him to pieces. After all, he does not know whether he has yet figured out how to put himself back together after that. Desperation and empty hope have served him well thus far, but they are not long-term fixes, and he knows it.

At least the transformation is quick. Once familiar claws have hooked onto his shoulder, he opens his eyes again and holds open his collar properly. The corvid slips into the front of his sweater, trilling as Clover holds its body through the cloth. His footsteps carry him off through a side exit, leaving him shivering at the chill in the air; his hair is still damp from his shower, but his chest is warm, at the very least.

There are benches which line the walkways around the academy. Although his breath forms thick clouds of steam in the frigid air, Clover finds one which is tucked in a nook and settles in, opening up the zipper a little further so that the corvid can rest its head outside, rather than hiding within from any curious onlookers roaming the halls. The bird makes no move to get out of his sweater, though, and Clover does not blame it, for he can feel ice invading his bones with every breath.

Still, as he strokes the top of a feathery head gently, he murmurs, “You feeling a little better?”

The crow clicks twice. Agreement.

 _Okay._ With a small sigh, Clover leans back, looking up at the sky. The stars are far clearer from here, as the moon is hidden around the corner; they glitter in the distance, beautiful and gentle, shimmering out of reach.

Qrow is in his hands. He is still out of reach.

Before he can think twice on it, he begins to speak. “You can’t let yourself give up, Qrow. I won’t let you.”

For a long moment, the crow is silent, still- then, it weasels it way out of his sweater, claws digging into Clover’s chest, stinging.

Clover closes his eyes. Within seconds, there is a shift in the bench, a warm thigh pressed against his in the cold. “It’s not as easy as just saying it,” the elder murmurs, voice barely audible in its growl.

“I know. That’s why I mean it when I say I’m proud of you.”

Qrow lets out a long, shuddering sigh. Then, he leans his head onto Clover’s shoulder, the simple act of intimacy heating the younger up from head to toe. “My head hurts like a bitch.”

“Yeah.”

“I feel sick.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“…I’m not better at all, am I?”

“You’re not perfect yet. You’re just on the way.” Smiling at the stars, Clover reaches out his hand, grasping at the empty, chilling air. “One step at a time- isn’t that what you always tell Ruby? One day you’ll turn around and see how far you’ve come.”

To his surprise, another hand enters his sight, grabbing onto his own. Qrow squeezes, silently asking for permission- silently lacing their fingers together, just as Clover had before. There is no blush on his face, no hesitance in his actions- just a man needing warmth.

Clover allows him to do as he pleases. As long as Qrow doesn’t drink, they are one step closer to giving Clover a chance for happiness. Until then, Clover has no chance defeating a monster which they cannot see, even with his luck.


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're reading along, let me know what you think of this! God knows it's been a shit few weeks and I need the motivation

“You’re helping Uncle Qrow quit, aren’t you?”

Clover freezes, body chilling to the core as the intensity of those words sinks in. “I- Ruby-“

The words are quiet, rushed. Yet, the sheer gratitude and emotionality of it all is evident, words burbling from pink lips so purely that he cannot breathe, cannot regain his balance. “He’s been doing so much better, and I know he always looks happier when you’re on missions together, and I just- I haven’t seen him drink once in weeks, and I…” Silver eyes far too big to be natural look up at him plaintively. “Thank you, Clover. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to thank you enough.” There are burgeoning tears in her eyes, threatening to fall, her voice cracking as she adds bitterly, “I was so scared I was going to lose him one day because of- of-“ She shudders, sucking in a breath, trying to calm herself down- to repaint the mask of poise expected of anyone working within Atlesian walls.

He can feel his expression softening, the movements uncharacteristic for him in front of anyone but Qrow; and yet, he finds that as he looks at Ruby now, there is a swell of pride, of warmth, which rises up in his chest for the girl.

He and Qrow truly are spending too much time together, he realizes. That is the only way to explain the affection when has somehow lodged deep within his heart without his knowing, burning with a smoldering fire for this tiny, hardworking Huntress who simply loves her uncle and hero more than anything.

He smiles wanly. “I’m just offering him encouragement whenever I can. Go give that praise to your uncle. He deserves it.”

Those giant silver eyes narrow, creasing into perfect, puffy crescent moons, glittering within her face. “I will,” she promises before waving goodbye, rushing off to find the elder man.

Clover grins and shakes his head ruefully, a little off-kilter after the interaction. To think, he would feel such warmth towards a junior soldier- it is hardly professional. Then again, his relationship with Qrow isn’t exactly professional, either. They find themselves in this predicament precisely due to that fact- due to the fact that something is terribly, terribly wrong with the system in Atlas, leaving Clover no choice but to break protocol and open his arms.

He cannot resist it, after all. Qrow means too much to him, and Clover, for one, has always been weak to corvids.

But Ruby’s words ring true; over the past few weeks, one sober evening has turned into two, three, ten, twenty, leaving Qrow with clearer eyes and a stronger resolve than ever before. Now that Clover’s personal collection lives with Vine, there is nothing to tempt him, leaving the elder with incredible choices such as tea and water and anything else Clover can find to stock up his fridge that is not alcoholic, for he does not want to give Qrow a chance to slip.

And somehow, despite all of their questions and worries and fears… it _works_. Clover does not fully understand how to feel about it all. He is but a soldier, not a doctor or psychologist or researcher. He does not know how to answer Qrow’s eternal question which looms over their heads each evening, each time Qrow has a twitch in his fingers or a frustrated pace in his gait. He does not know how to give Qrow what he needs more than anything: closure.

Qrow is the one who brings up Ruby’s comments. “She likes you, you know,” Qrow murmurs as he steps out of the bathroom, dressed in comfortable sleepwear. “Ruby’s pretty picky about people since the Fall. It messed up a lot of her hope in the world. Yet, she likes you.”

Clover waits for the elder to continue, but his strained smile says it all. _I hope she’s right._

It stings to know that he still isn’t trusted completely. He wishes he knew how to present himself as more than just a partner, an ally- but he does not know how to whilst the only thing on Qrow’s mind continues to be his own demons. So, he simply sits upon the edge of the bed, lacing his fingers together thoughtfully. “I… she’s a sweet kid.”

“Yeah.”

“When I say you’ve done well with them, I mean it.”

“…I know.”

Clover raises a brow, surprised. “You’re not deflecting anymore? Who are you, and what have you done with Qrow?“

A pillow is thrown at Clover’s face. He catches it with a laugh, feeling surprisingly light-hearted as Qrow groans, “Shut up, I’m just saying it because _you_ won’t shut up otherwise-“

“I thought you liked my voice!” Clover retorts, pulling the pillow onto his lap.

As Qrow splutters and tries to make some kind of comeback to distract from the pink flushing his cheeks, for they both know that in his corvid form, Qrow always sleeps best when laying upon Clover’s chest, listening to his voice rumble through his body in time with his heartbeat, Clover smiles and finally looks down at the object in his hands.

It is the small, black, plush replacement he had bought for Qrow during his trip to Mantle.

And just like that, his joy seeps away.

After a moment, Qrow’s touch upon his arm is tentative, unsure. “What- is something wrong?”

It takes a long time for Clover to sort his thoughts out. He knows that Qrow understands the purpose of his purchase of this pillow. He knows that his own desires and loneliness have been exposed for the elder to see, whether the elder truly understands the sentiments behind it or not.

It doesn’t make voicing it any easier.

“I just…” He sighs, pushing his damp widow’s peak out of his eyes, lying back on his bed. Staring up listlessly at the ceiling, he finally whispers, “I missed you, you know. When I went down to Mantle.” It feels oddly like defeat, admitting it properly to the elder. And yet, he does not regret a thing, hearing Qrow’s breath catch in his throat, startled surprise knocking him off-balance. So, boldly, he presses onwards. “I was actually… it hurt me, Qrow. To not have you there.”

“Really?”

He hums, “Yeah.”

“I-I didn’t think you would…”

He frowns, sitting up, meeting Qrow’s gaze head-on. “Didn’t think I would what?”

The guilt which paints Qrow’s features is clear as day, despite the relative darkness blanketing the room. His raspy voice is hoarse, just barely above a whisper as he says, “I didn’t think you would miss me if I was gone.”

Clover does not realize that he has stood up until he is standing at the window. It feels absolutely jarring to look at it now, his fingertips lingering upon the latch when he finally comes back to his senses; he has not opened it for the corvid in weeks, but the habit is still there, entrained in him as deeply as ever. The corvid’s presence back in the early days of having Qrow on Atlas had been so soothing; now, however, it provides no relief, for his mouth is dry as he processes what Qrow has said, those words rocking him to his very core, cutting far deeper than Ruby’s admission earlier that day ever could.

“I- what do you think I’m doing all this for?” he whispers, absolutely baffled, eyes trained upon the window. “Why do you think I’m helping you, Qrow?”

The other doesn’t respond.

Clover hates how much his voice raises, how quickly his feelings begin to muddle and churn and froth within his gut, spilling from his normally-controlled lips with such fervour and abandon that he can barely breathe. “Qrow, what- how could I _not_ care? How could you say that?”

Qrow does not know how to respond, his face hidden in shadow.

Clover sighs, squatting low upon his haunches, running his fingers through his hair. What else can he do? How else can he possibly spell it out, make it clear for the elder that there is no way that Qrow is _nothing,_ that Clover will do _anything_ in his power to help him, that all Clover has ever wanted is-

He opens his eyes once he feels a light peck upon his knee. Exhausted, he holds out his arms, scooping up the bird when it hops onto his thigh. Then, without restraint, he places a kiss on its crown, tender and affectionate-

And knowing. He knows this is Qrow. Qrow realizes the implications, too.

The bird squirms out of his grasp, twisting midair, leaving the man kneeling in front of Clover, worry and fear and hesitance shining in crimson clearer than any thought in Clover’s head.

Seeing Qrow so close to him is his downfall. He is so tired of pretending to be better than he is- than what he wants. So, before he can think twice, Clover reaches out and captures feathery hair in his hands, pulling the elder close, falling onto his knees as he finally presses his lips against the elder’s after so many weeks of just wanting to _hold_ the elder like he has always dreamt _._

Qrow is cold. Qrow is cold, his lips are chapped, he is startled and confused and shocked by Clover’s closeness, he doesn’t know what to do-

And then, he relaxes. Clover almost loses his strength as Qrow begins to kiss him back.

His mind goes utterly blank with shock from the reciprocation, causing him to grow dizzy, numb. When they finally break apart, panting lightly, the taste of minty toothpaste upon their tongues, all Clover can do is lean his forehead against Qrow’s shoulder and bite his lips, waiting for the elder to react. It is no longer Clover’s choice, he feels; whatever Qrow does next shall be the law.

So, when Qrow’s arms wrap around his shoulders, his voice cracking as he whispers, “Brothers, Clover- I didn’t- I can’t believe- do you really want… _this?_ ” Clover cannot believe it. Not even his luck is that powerful.

Mutely, he nods. _More than anything,_ he thinks, unable to find his voice amidst the shame and frustration and disbelief rising up within his throat.

Qrow does not pull away like he had feared. Instead, Qrow simply sighs, leaning his cheek against Clover’s hair. The guilt and shame which pierces through Clover’s heart is indescribable as he realizes that Qrow is trembling, clearly unsure of what to do or say now that all of Clover’s cards have been revealed. How is he supposed to react, after all?

Clover pulls away, planting himself down on his bottom, running his hands down his cheeks. “I’m- brothers, Qrow, I’m sorry,” he mutters. “I just- I shouldn’t have done that.”

The alarm which rings through Qrow’s eyes is shocking. “Wait- why?”

Clover winces, smiling weakly. How can he say it in a way that isn’t self-deprecating, self-loathing? “You’ve got bigger things to worry about,” he admits at last. “You need to focus on recovering and moving on- you don’t need to worry about me.”

Without a word, Qrow climbs to his feet, grabbing Clover’s hand and tugging him upwards. The strength in that movement is absolutely captivating; a few weeks earlier, Qrow would not have been able to do that with such balance without the aid of adrenaline and the need to fight.

It is with the utmost tentativeness that Qrow’s fingers cup Clover’s cheek, lifting his miserably-twisted face to look at through the darkness. “I wouldn’t be recovering if it wasn’t for you,” he whispers.

Clover snorts humourlessly. “So what- is this pity?”

“No.” Qrow shakes his head, trying to find the words which refuse to appear upon his tongue. “It…”

Clover feels his heart fall as he sees the shame which has overtaken the elder as he confesses, “I never thought I would have a chance after lying to you about… me. Everything. So I didn’t even think about it.”

Wordlessly, Clover stands, slipping under the covers. He holds up the edge, his expression neutral as Qrow joins him. He cannot form words, cannot think thoughts- he just needs to allow this to sink in, to allow himself to truly understand what in the world is going on.

It takes him until the next morning to do so. After all, when he opens his eyes at a healthy hour after the sun has begun to creep over the horizon, crimson opens up to blearily look back at him. It is only then that Clover allows himself to cry in Qrow’s arms for once, rather than the other way around; the elder has not left him behind. They finally have an avenue to heal Qrow.

Fighting an impossible enemy is not as difficult with someone by one’s side. For the first time in this entire journey, Clover feels like he is not alone- that Qrow is truly standing with him. He has not left Clover behind.

They can do this, he realizes. And as he kisses the elder once again, lips closed, the touch tender and chaste and uncertain, he knows that Qrow feels the same way, too.


	27. Chapter 27

“What am I to you?”

Two days since Clover’s heart has finally felt a modicum of true peace since this entire mess began, and he is already desperate for more- more stability, more time, more _Qrow._

He wishes he were stronger. The heart is not something which he knows how to train, however.

Crimson stares up at him, heavily-lidded and bleary-eyed with fatigue. Clover instantly regrets the question, for he knows the elder is partway through succumbing to medicine for the headache which has been plaguing him all day; yet, the words hang heavy in the air, and all he can do is wait for the response.

There is no point in pretending that he does not want an answer, though, even though he knows already that his heart is aligned with Qrow’s. He has promised himself that he is finished with pretending. His heart is not as cold as he has always thought; perhaps he is not as Atlesian, as militaristic, as he has always thought, too. Perhaps Qrow was all he has ever needed to pierce through his guard.

Either way, he is getting used to this, slowly but surely- this act of being ‘vulnerable’. Vulnerability begins with his honesty, and his heart has honestly been longing to ask this question for the third time. He just wants a response- something to which he can cling, something better than a knowing smile or a comment about his good luck. While he knows that Qrow’s lips shall find his in the morning, his fingers twining with Clover’s, their bodies exchanging heat so perfectly that it shall be like a cool winter morning in Vale once dawn finally arises in Clover’s quarters, he still desires to have some kind of clarity in what exactly Clover is to Qrow Branwen.

He does not want to be just a crutch. He _knows_ he isn’t just a crutch.

…it’s hard to unlearn things he has told himself too many times to count, though.

Qrow fights to regain enough lucidity to respond to him, and Clover gives him the space to do so happily. They have time and privacy in the solitude of the night, after all. While he does so, however, he takes a moment to look at the eyes staring back at him- at shadowed red irises that catch droplets of starlight, moonbeams swirling across pale, clear skin through the gap in the curtains. Chapped lips part, minty breath cool and warm all at once as it brushes against Clover’s bare skin, tickling his collar as feathery hair curls closer. Clover’s eyes fall upon the freshly-shaven jaw that sinks into the pillow by his head; he traces a fingertip across smooth skin that is so unusual to see, removing years from Qrow’s face, although they both know that in the morning, that stubble shall be back in its usual place.

At his touch, thick, dusky lashes flutter shut, crimson eyes disappearing behind weary eyelids, but the age is still present in the wrinkles around Qrow’s eyes, mouth, nose- crow’s feet crinkle as they surround red, indicative in name and heart of the creature who Clover has loved for far too long.

“You’re Clover,” Qrow mutters at last, his forehead resting against Clover’s collarbone.

Clover is awestruck, doubly so. Half of him is utterly distracted from those words, for the way Qrow’s nose buries into the crook of his neck, desperate for purchase and shelter amongst the incoming night, is done with the exact same movement of the crow, and Clover shall never be truly able to lose his wonderment when it comes to the fact that those fingers preen his hair the way the corvid’s beak always did. He will never truly be able to ignore the trembling of his heart when he feels those motions.

The wounds of betrayal have healed, mostly. They’re scars now. He still remembers them, but unlike Qrow, his heartache has always had a clearer path to recovery; the man in his arms is part of that. For that, he is grateful, for the thought of the crow which Qrow has always been no longer brings him pain, leaving him the joy that he had always felt towards the creature since his youth.

The other half of him is taken by Qrow’s words, spoken slurred against his skin as medicine takes over, long, callused fingers wrapping loosely around Clover’s strong waist. Qrow grunts, low voice growling in his chest. “Yeah. Clover.”

Clover opens his mouth to quip back, to press further- he wants _something_ more concrete than just… _that_. Then, he feels lips press against his collarbone, a sleepy voice mumbling, “G’night,” against his skin, and Clover sighs, looking up at the vaulted ceiling of his quarters. The shimmer of the moonlight lingers in lines upon the wall, reflecting onto the ceiling, painting it with monochrome hues which destroy his depth perception. His mind is still racing, still longing for clarity, for some kind of definition by which he can understand their relationship which has grown so off-the-rails.

 _Maybe I’m just tired,_ he thinks, eyes growing heavy as well.

Qrow pauses mid-breath, sighing lightly before his chest continues to rise and fall, slumber taking him quickly. Clover shivers, sensing the faintest brush of the elder’s lashes against his skin; the intimacy of the action causes his own heart to seize.

Two days. Tomorrow shall be three. Qrow shall stay with him.

Closing his eyes at last, Clover rolls over slightly- just enough to cradle Qrow properly. Two days, and he has already perfected this routine, at least. He allows air to fill his lungs, exhaling slowly, relaxing each muscle in his body consciously to allow all of the tension to ease away.

_He didn’t drink today._

His shoulders sink further into the bed.

_He didn’t snap at anyone today._

His hips feel grounded, stable.

_He smiled. He was happy._

Toes curl, uncurl, relax.

_He didn’t leave me behind. He came back tonight._

And that’s the best Clover can hope for, for now. He knows he shall wake up disoriented, wishing there was more he could do than just exist, projecting his Semblance the best he can. However, little steps are better than nothing, and Clover is a man of routine; getting used to waking up to Qrow’s rested smile and clumsy, tender kiss is a first step he is more than happy to begin with.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the whole story's done and in the drafts, i'll publish the rest tomorrow. only 2 to go. we finally did it y'all. if you're reading along, please drop a comment or shoot me a message. this fic means a lot to me.

With more and more Megoliaths in the herd storming in from every angle, all Clover can see is gnashing teeth and piercing tusks, white bone mixing with snow, only shadowed by dark bodies and acrid, rancid dust left in their wake. He does what he does best- using his luck, manipulating fate, trusting himself to tumble and fall rather than fight back, for his job is never to destroy. His job is to immobilize, to capture, to lock into place.

There is already a reaper on his side who can deliver the final blows, after all.

However, as the battle progresses and he watches both the rookies and his teammates growing more and more fatigued by the minute, Clover has no choice but to issue the command to retreat. They must regroup- they must protect Amity’s worksite. There is no reason to lose each other amidst the tundra when their mission is not to wipe out the Grimm, but to keep humanity’s hope safe from harm.

As rows upon rows of Sabyrs and Megoliaths step closer, tusks and trunks and fangs and claws slowly growing near, the air rife with the scent of decaying flesh and despair, Clover sees a blur of black out of the corner of his eye. It dances in tandem with red petals- with Ruby and her Semblance of speed, the young woman zipping through the air around a dark bullet of an object.

She moves in tandem with Qrow.

The corvid form is easily the fastest way to get around, second only to Ruby and Harriet with their speed-based Semblances; Clover’s grip upon the hilt of Kingfisher loosens for a moment as he watches the crow zip across the battlefield, transforming back into the Huntsman Clover loves far too much for just a few blinks of the eye. Qrow never lingers in one spot for long, only morphing back into a human to slice through a Grimm attacking Blake, to catch Nora and send her flying using his scythe, to hold Jaune’s shoulder and keep him steady while he weathers an assault against his shield from a bloodstained tusk. He is flighty, only appearing where he is needed and never a moment more, for there are too many people on the battlefield which he needs to keep alive.

His movements are so much crisper than they had been the first time Clover had seen this bird caught up in bloodshed.

Clover is forced to go back into battle, his fingers tightening around Kingfisher’s hilt once again. They do not have time to space out, and as their leader, he cannot afford to close his eyes and allow his feelings to overwhelm him. So, he clenches his jaw and throws himself back into the fray, ensuring that his team is safe and that their mission is complete. His myriad of tangled emotions can come later.

The skies are dark by the time they are finished clearing out the Grimm- not due to sunset, but due to dissipating, shadowy flesh rising into the heavens. It chokes out the sky, but Clover would much rather see that than see people fall to their doom; all of his people are safe. The colosseum and the project are safe.

Qrow is safe.

He watches the elder transform back into his true self and help Yang to her feet, fixing her hair and teasing her lightly, fatigue clear as day upon his sweat-streaked brow. He cannot imagine how nauseating transforming between a crow and a man in the midst of battle must be, but the green tinge upon Qrow’s cheeks proves that it cannot be pleasant.

Clover gives his orders to the rest of the Ace Ops, who in turn drag the rookies into delegation; this allows his eyes to focus upon a short red cape fluttering majestically, victoriously, in the breeze. They have won.

Yet, why does he feel like he is going to be sick as he looks at Qrow’s body taking the form of a man for the final time that day?

A soft touch on his arm brings him back to reality. “Hey, Clover,” Nora murmurs, pale blue eyes matched by Ruby’s plaintive ones as they look up at him worriedly, “what’s wrong?”

Clover blinks at them, his vision growing blurred for a moment. “Nothing. Good work today-“

“Then why are you crying?” Ruby asks.

Clover’s throat tightens up, his hand flying up to his cheeks. Tears are indeed rolling down his face- the realization brings his current state into sharp relief, adrenaline fading away from his system only to leave behind a sickening nausea that threatens to cripple him. He looks back up at Qrow and feels the horror bubbling up within his bones crash back into him so violently he almost retches then and there.

Their hands are on his back and shoulder comfortingly, but he walks away. “I’m going to check on the workers,” he says to no one in particular.

His only relief is that they do not follow him.

As he enters the doors of Amity and makes a beeline for the nearest private area- which, in this case, turns out to be a supply closet- he finally allows himself to let out a trembling, haggard sob, too many emotions welling up within him for him to even keep track. Why is he upset? Why is he crumbling? This isn’t who he is, this isn’t who he is supposed to be-

“Clover, what’s going on?” Qrow’s voice rasps worriedly. “Ruby said you’re not okay, so I came to check.”

Clover does not look up, merely leaning back against the one clear wall in the room, covering his face with his hands. He wants to speak, but words do not appear- how can they, when he has no idea what he needs to say?

As Qrow steps closer, though, closing the door behind him and walking up to Clover, the younger finally understands; however, the shame which rises up like bile in his throat prevents him from speaking, irritation and self-hatred and bitterness coating his tongue with regret and frustration.

A soft touch lands upon his bare arm, then his cheek, uncharacteristically gentle for the figure that had slain so many demons just moments before. “Hey, boy scout, what’s going on?” he murmurs.

Clover does not know how to ever put into words that the sight of Qrow transforming into a bird upon the battlefield for the first time since he has found out about Qrow’s secret fills him with so much instinctive betrayal and fear and hurt that he cannot _breathe_.

Mutely, Clover shakes his head, letting out a whimpering gasp for air that would have humiliated him had they been in public, or had this little closet had an actual light source within. As it is, he can smell Qrow’s cologne too thickly in the air, can feel the elder’s heat as Qrow’s fingers wipe away Clover’s tears with the same gentleness he had used to straighten out Yang’s hair.

There is no reason for Clover to feel so heartbroken. Qrow is _here._ There are no more secrets between them.

His heart cannot forgive as easily as his mind, though.

Finally, Qrow steps back, and the man’s presence disappears. Clover opens his eyes, only to see a black blob in the darkness of the closet; the corvid flies up towards him, and Clover catches the creature on instinct, cradling the crow with as much ease as always.

Within a few moments of the bird trilling worriedly in his arms, however, Clover manages to croak out, “I’d rather have you.”

Hopping out of Clover’s arms, the shimmer of Qrow’s Aura brightens up the room for a heartbeat before Clover feels strong, lean arms envelop his shoulders clumsily. “What happened?” he breathes into Clover’s hair.

Clover shakes his head. One part of him hates this- hates crumbling when his logical side is screaming that there is absolutely no reason for Qrow’s image to trigger such volatile emotions within him. And yet, he cannot fight it down no matter how much his body screams that he should be fine, that he has no reason to weep.

Qrow is the one hurting, right? Not Clover? What right does Clover have to this betrayal when they’ve already apologized and made their peace-

But then, Qrow’s arms grow even tighter around his torso. “You can tell me,” he whispers. “It’s okay, Clover. Tell me.”

And the other part of Clover falls apart.

Trembling in a way that would have made his self from a few months earlier cringe with shame and disgust, Clover whispers his fears and his sorrows into the crook of Qrow’s neck, clutching onto his shoulders. Seeing Qrow on the battlefield doing so well fills him with such pride, he explains. Seeing Qrow grow stronger makes him feel so happy. But seeing the crow?

“The last time I saw you fight like this, I-“ and he cannot complete his sentence, for he cannot begin to explain the sheer sorrow wracking his heart.

Qrow understands. Fingers intertwine with the hair on the back of Clover’s head, the elder cradling Clover close. “Fuck, Clover, I’m so sorry,” he says, voice cracking in shame. “I’m so fucking sorry. I wish- I wish I could go back-“

“No,” Clover replies instantly. “You’re better now.” He shakes his head, wiping hot tears from his cheeks ashamedly. “I just need to learn to toughen up.”

“…stop it,” Qrow mutters.

Clover freezes. “What?”

“Stop doing that.” Qrow’s hands cup Clover’s face, and even in shadow, Clover can see the intensity of the grief, the fire, burning within the elder’s eyes. “You’re not a fucking _robot,_ Clover. Stop pretending like it’s okay.”

His mouth opens, closes. He swallows thickly. “But I-“

“Am allowed to be _someone,_ ” Qrow says sternly. “You’re not _just_ an Atlas boy, Clover. Stop trying to just be that.” He lets out a long, haggard sigh. “Stop trying to do this alone. I’m not going to _break-_ not anymore _._ Let me help.”

A for one long, quiet, tense moment, Clover has to lean back against the wall and deal with the emotions churning up within him, for he realizes that Qrow is _right._

_Qrow-_

It takes Clover a long time to leave that supply closet that day. By the time he steps back out into the light, the cleanup is mostly done thanks to his team; he acknowledges their efforts and provides a quick debrief, allocating resources and assigning tasks for the end of the day before the extracting airships pick them up. No one comments on why his face is splotchy and red, nor why Qrow’s shoulder is damp. The others simply give their leader a wide berth, allowing him some dignity in his sudden, strange weakness, leaving Qrow to take care of the younger in the way only he can- with companionship and warmth during a quiet trip back home in the airship, and a heart that is just a little lighter than before.

By the time they sleep that night, Clover almost feels okay with this strangely emotional creature he has become. After all, Qrow’s smile grows unbearably fond when he looks at Clover- when he thanks him for what Clover has sacrificed on Qrow’s behalf.

For the first time, it feels like Qrow is sharing some of his burdens, too. They are not just working together to save Qrow from his demons; they’re working together to reconnect Clover with something he never knew he was lacking.

He likes this feeling, he thinks, as he sinks into his pillow that night. It is Qrow’s night to be a corvid, but instead, the elder has chosen to remain a man, holding Clover’s cheek against his chest, drifting off to sleep with the younger in his arms. So, Clover relishes in it as he closes his eyes, allowing the sound of a gentle heartbeat to lull him into a slumber so comfortable he wonders whether this intimacy, and not the crow, is what he has longed for all along.


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting this now in the hopes to get some lovely serotonin from comments tomorrow morning when the workweek begins anew, smh

He can understand the mental gymnastics Qrow is performing without even hearing a word pass the elder’s lips. “You don’t have to go if you don’t want to,” Clover says, placing his hand atop Qrow’s and squeezing gently. “I’ll come up with an excuse for the others. James knows you’re quitting drinking, so he won’t mind if I duck out early to check in with you, either.”

Qrow chews his lip anyways, eyes focused upon the invitation which has been sent to the Scrolls of everyone intimately involved with the Amity Project’s construction. Clover watches his eyes flick back and forth nervously, clearly weighing the pros and cons with each pass over the invitation details.

After all, there shall be an open bar for the adult Huntsmen and Huntresses present. Qrow has every reason to be hesitant.

Clover adds, “Anyways, the rookies are going to be there, so they’ll have non-alcoholic choices if you decide to join, although it’s going to be in the ballroom connected to the officer’s mess.”

Wearily, Qrow shakes his head. “I can’t hide forever,” he murmurs glumly. “I should go. Besides…” He glances up, flashing Clover a rueful smile, “Ruby would probably get annoyed if I didn’t show up. She’s always saying that I need to relax more these days.”

Clover rolls his eyes, but his smile is true; he nods, reaching over and confirming the elder’s attendance on his Scroll before Qrow can stop him. “If you want to leave early,” he explains softly to Qrow’s shocked glare, “then just tell me that you’re cold.”

“What?”

He shrugs, leaning back in his chair. “I’ll say I’ll grab you a jacket or something, and we can leave. There’s no need to stay the whole time if it gets to be too much, right?”

“…says the man who only wears _vests_?”

“You like the view.”

The relief which dances across Qrow’s face is palpable, the elder finally assenting.

With that, the day of the little dinner arrives. It’s a casual affair, the vibrant room full of laughter and cheer as people celebrate a job almost completed; James explains, “The moment the tower is live, I doubt we shall have any time to celebrate properly. So, let us take the time tonight to appreciate the work we have put into bringing peace and connection back to Remnant.”

The sentiment is sweet and shared, so people raise their glasses in salute and continue with their casual evening.

Clover is halfway through refilling his glass with water when Vine approaches him. “For how much longer would you like me to house your liquor collection?” he asks simply. “I shall be requiring the extra space soon.”

Immediately, Clover’s mind begins to work in overdrive. _If I take it back, I can always start seeing Qrow in his quarters- they’re not as well-furnished since he’s a guest, but it’ll be fine- I can move my belongings over, just a few sets of clothes and-_

“Why does Vine have your liquor collection?”

Clover’s thoughts screech to a halt. He glances sheepishly at Qrow, the elder watching him wide-eyed, waiting for a response.

Vine steps in to fill the silence before it can truly begin. “He asked me to house it for a while, although he never really said why.” Looking sternly at Clover, he adds, “Should I ask Harriet to take it if you still cannot keep it with you?”

Clover’s eyes flit between Vine and Qrow for just a moment, but it is enough for the elder to understand what is going on. Qrow’s expression crumples, then softens, crimson filling with such amazed appreciation that Clover’s knees grow weak at the mere sight of Qrow’s smile. “I’ll help him take it back from your room, Vine,” Qrow breathes. “He doesn’t need to store it elsewhere anymore.”

“That’s good to hear. Tomorrow, then,” the tall, gaunt man nods, loping away to find a quiet corner in which he can enjoy his dinner separated from the hubbub.

Clover merely nods, face heating up now that his tiny act of care has been found out. Qrow reaches out, grabbing his hand out of sight from the others. “You really did that for me?” he breathes.

Clover shrugs. “I didn’t want you to feel uncomfortable.”

Thin lips press together, but Clover can _feel_ Qrow’s desire to continue the conversation emanating off his body; however, they have no time to speak as another Huntsman involved in the project steps towards them. “Would either of you like some?” he asks, holding up a near-empty pitcher of beer. “We’ve still got enough for a glass.”

Clover shakes his head confidently, slipping on his Ace Operatives smile with ease. Seeing that, the Huntsman turns to Qrow. For a moment, Clover wants to step in, to respond for the elder. He shouldn’t feel pressured to partake, after all. Yet, he holds back, for this is not his fight. Qrow will never grow stronger if Clover protects him always. He is just there to lend a helping hand, after all.

Thankfully, the elder shakes his head after a moment of hesitation. “No, but thanks for the offer, bud,” he says easily. The stranger does not know Qrow, so he does not spot the quiver of the elder’s lips, the fear which lances through crimson as he speaks.

With a smile, the Huntsman leaves, and Clover is proud. He places a hand on the small of Qrow’s back. “Remember,” he murmurs into the elder’s ear, “just let me know if you’re cold, got it?”

Qrow rolls his eyes, but the gratitude shining in his face is clear as day. “Go be with your team.”

The rest of the party passes without incident, and Clover finds that Qrow stays for nearly the entire time. It is only close to the end, when the Huntsmen have drunken their fill and James has retired for the evening, when half the children are already asleep upon the tables and the other half are bouncing off the walls thanks to extra servings of dessert, that Qrow finally approaches him. “I’m cold,” he admits with a slight flush.

Clover nods. “I’m sure I’ve got another jacket in your size,” he lies easily, waving goodbye to the trio of soldiers with whom he has been chatting.

The moment they step outside the hall, red shines and reflects off the sterile white walls as the man transforms into a corvid. Without question, Clover scoops up the bird and chuckles as it tucks its beak down the collar of his vest, veritably hiding away from the world. He scratches the bird’s neck and head gently, planting a kiss on its crown. “I guess we’re going home now,” he laughs. “We can deal with moving my boxes from Vine’s room tomorrow.”

The bird trills its assent. He laughs, feeling the bird immediately relax in his arms, crimson eyes closing in seconds as the creature drifts off to sleep, soothed by Clover’s safety and warmth.

Just as he is about to head to his own quarters, Ruby’s voice calls out to him, and Clover spins on his heel automatically, registering her words too late. “Clover, have you seen Uncle Qrow? They brought out another round of dessert-“

And she spots the bird in his arms.

Instantly, Clover tries to think of a cover story. It is useless, however, for Ruby’s silver eyes are already as wide as the moon, the girl’s gaze flicking between the bird cradled with so much evident love in his arms and his own face. “Ruby,” he murmurs, “I can-“

She knocks him completely off-balance as tears fill her eyes involuntarily, a hand flying up to cover her mouth. “I- thank _goodness,_ ” she squeaks, the sheer relief cascading over her form enough to stop the words from forming in Clover’s throat. “You- Clover, are you and Qrow _together?_ Like- _together-_ together?”

Clover sighs, holding the bird closer, for Qrow has not reacted this whole time. _He must’ve actually been really exhausted,_ Clover notes, placing one hand over the bird’s head to block out their conversation. “We’re… it’s complicated, Ruby,” he says at last. He doesn’t know how much Qrow wants Ruby to know, after all.

To his surprise, she steps closer, pleading, “But you _want_ to be, right? There’s got to be something-“ and she steps away again, reeling herself in. “I’m sorry. I just- he’s always been alone,” she whispers. A crooked, yet sweet grin forms on her lips. “If you’re taking care of him… maybe he won’t be as lonely anymore.”

“He’s never been lonely,” Clover murmurs before he realizes it. “He’s always had you and Yang.”

She chuckles dryly. “It’s not the same, even I know that. But if you’re here…” Her face melts into pure, relieved joy as she wipes away the tears which have sprung up unbidden. “I’m sure I can leave him to you.”

He swallows down the myriad of emotion rising up into his throat. “I’ll… yeah,” he breathes. “I’ll do my best.”

She holds a finger up to her lips as she begins to walk backwards, heading to the banquet hall at last. “I guess I should call you ‘Uncle Clover’ from now on, huh?” she teases with a wink. Instantly, she stops, covering her mouth with her hands. “Oh! Wait, no, is that allowed? Do I have to call you ‘sir’? _Should I have called you sir this whole time?_ ” Panic flits across her features, clearly befuddled.

Clover laughs, shaking his head, trying his best to ignore the simple, gentle statement that she has so easily offered to him. “I- no, Ruby. ‘Clover’ is always fine.”

She beams. “Goodnight then!” she calls as she returns to the banquet hall.

Clover has at least a few minutes of quiet to reflect on that conversation; when he finally closes the door to his quarters behind him, however, the bird hops out of his arms, the man appearing in its stead slumping down onto the edge of the bed.

“You heard?” Clover asks. He already knows the answer.

Qrow nods anyways, his eyes looking up at Clover in a mix of fear and wonder. “Do… you don’t mind what she said, do you?” he says, absolutely amazed. “You didn’t turn that idea away.”

Clover shrugs as he begins to remove his vest. “Which one?”

“Uncle- _me-_ all of it,” the elder splutters after a moment, burying his face in his hands.

Once the vest is hung up, leaving him in his slacks and sleeveless shirt, Clover merely kneels in front of Qrow, gently pulling his hands off his face. “I meant what I said,” he whispers. “I’m doing this for _you._ And, I’m fond of the girls, so why not?” His smile falters as he is struck once again by the power of what Ruby had so casually given to him, leaving him dizzy. He presses his forehead against Qrow’s bony knees, letting out a long, haggard sigh. “Your nieces really are strong. I can’t believe she just _did_ that.”

“Did what?”

Clover’s lip wobbles, much to his chagrin. He knows he shall always feel a little embarrassed with the way he crumbles so easily in front of Qrow. “If I’m her uncle now, too, doesn’t that mean I’m…” He gestures vaguely, unsure of how exactly to put it into words. “Aren’t I part of the family?”

Long fingers tilt his chin upwards. “If you’ll have us,” Qrow murmurs, pressing his forehead and nose flush against Clover’s. “We’re a bit of a fucking mess, but… you’d like Patch.”

“…I’d like to see it one day.”

“I’ll take you.”

“Okay.”

“Their dad bakes really good cookies.”

“I look forward to it.”

“He doesn’t drink much, so it’s fine to be there.”

“…He’ll be surprised when he sees you again, huh?”

He does not flinch when Qrow’s tears land upon his cheeks. “He’ll be really proud,” Qrow admits through choked tears. “He’ll be really, really proud. Dumbass has been begging me to quit for years- I should’ve listened a long time ago. He’ll be _so happy._ ”

“As he should be,” Clover replies, standing up and gathering the elder in his arms. “We all are.”

And he means it.


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sept. 28, 2020
> 
> And that’s that. As some of you may know, this fic has grown incredibly near-and-dear to me over the past month as I’ve embarked on this journey with Qrow. Thank you for the lovely support and comments; every word of support towards our twunky depressed bird uncle has indirectly supported my own journey along this path, so I appreciate you all reading my venting about experiencing recovery in the form of this fic. I will never be alright with how RT let Qrow’s journey slip in V7. It’s something that’s far too painful to not deserve proper exploration. I hope I’ve done it even a sliver of justice here, using my own perspectives of this battle.
> 
> ~~also how does one locate a himbo plantboi body pillow to help with this nonsense, asking for me~~

Life has a tendency of moving forward so subtly that one can never truly realize that things have changed until they are already settled within new routines, new patterns, new waves of triumphs and failures. Clover has never truly understood this sentiment until now, but it has become engrained into his heart as the sun rises over the horizon each morning, greeting him with soft rays that ignite a sea of stars glittering upon the tundra as the night sky fades away. After all, nothing is mundane with Qrow around- nothing is normal, nothing is routine.

And yet, he has never felt freer than the time he spends fighting by Qrow’s side.

Qrow relapses. Clover picks him back up. They shed tears and curse at one another, but Clover wakes up in the morning with Qrow’s limbs still intertwined with his, so they keep on going.

A few weeks later, he almost relapses again. He stays strong anyways. The tears shed against Clover’s skin still burn with the same amount of shame as if Qrow _had_ fallen, though.

The patterns and cycles repeat, again and again, a broken record which merely lengthens the time between each stumble. Clover does not stray, however; he has a goal, and he shall see to it.

After all, every time Qrow looks at him with such life and vibrant warmth after so many weeks sober, Clover knows that he is fighting for the right cause. However, the pattern is still utterly exhausting to him. There is no way to pretend like he is alright; every single time he finds Qrow hiding away in shame, he knows that he shall not rest that night, for he must figure out what is going on, what has led the elder to do this.

It’s not easy. He is _so tired._ And yet, whenever Qrow whispers, “Thank you, Clover,” against his skin, he knows that he shall pick the elder up as many times as it takes.

The first full month without a drink is a baffling one for Clover. He simultaneously relishes in the peace which has become a part of their lives, and yet misses a conflict which he is not even consciously aware is lacking. He can tell that something is different as time goes on, but he cannot place his finger on it as their schedules grow more and more hectic amongst the doldrums of work and life. There is not enough time to think of why he is sleeping so well; he merely accepts that fact gratefully.

That milestone, however, is understood at last when Clover sits in his room one evening, reading an article upon his Scroll. They have managed to get the evening off, allowing Qrow to come up to his quarters earlier than usual; it is a blessing, for every bone in Clover’s body aches after a few days of rigorous missions and training to top it off.

When Qrow first hands him a glass, he does not notice what lies within until he brings it up to his nose. Then, he freezes, staring dolefully up at the elder as Qrow takes a seat at the table across from him. Qrow does not bear a glass for himself, instead placing a mug of what smells like chamomile tea in front of him as he opens up the show his nieces have been recommending him to watch as of late upon his own device.

“Qrow… why _this?_ ” Clover asks, raising the glass of whisky towards the elder.

Qrow smiles, shrugging. “Your teammates mentioned that you used to always drink a glass after hard missions. That’s not a bad habit in itself.” His eyes soften, smile growing a tad bit sheepish. “I figured it was time to stop making you change your whole routine for my sake.”

“And… you’re… you’re okay with that?” Clover breathes, wide-eyed and flustered and confused.

Qrow raises his mug of tea, holding it up to clink against Clover’s own glass. “Once in a while is fine,” he chides teasingly.

The layers to his voice- the depth, the emotion, the _truth,_ for they both know that Qrow never would have made it this far if it were not for Clover and the devoted affection and care he has given so unequivocally to the elder- brings tears to Clover’s eyes. He takes a sip instead of letting them fall, relishing in smoky notes which he has faintly missed. It’s delicious and relaxing, a routine which he has been so removed from for so long that it almost feels foreign, indulgent.

And as he sips away at his tiny serving, Qrow doesn’t even flinch, eyes focused upon his show. He is unbothered by Clover drinking just a foot away.

So, when they go to bed that night, despite his light buzz built up after abstaining from drinking for so long, Clover takes extra care to brush his teeth, to wash his face, to remove any trace of liquor upon his lips. As he kisses Qrow goodnight when they settle under the covers, Qrow does not flinch. He does not pull away, the taste of Clover’s kiss leaving no trace of whisky upon his breath.

Strangely enough, it is only when Qrow turns into a bird for a brief moment that the date truly clicks for Clover, looking at the large corvid fluffing its feathers upon his pillow. “Qrow,” he murmurs, “it’s been a whole month.”

The bird freezes, cooing and trilling softly as it looks up at him.

“You’ve been going strong for a whole month, Qrow.” He lays out his arm across the pillow, heart melting instinctively as the bird rests its head upon his bicep. “You- do you still get headaches?”

For an achingly long moment, the bird does not respond- and then, it shakes its head, clucking from deep within its throat.

Pride and relief and amazement bubble up into his throat. Quietly, he whispers, “We have a day off tomorrow. Tonight, can I have my- can you be a human, please?”

_Can I have my human, please?_

Without a word, Qrow’s familiar red Aura illuminates the room, the creature shifting ethereally into a sleepy man dressed in naught but oversized sleepwear. “I guess…” Qrow takes in a shuddering breath, clearly just recognizing this fact for the first time as well. “I guess I might not need to sleep as a crow as much anymore, huh?”

Clover sits up, brushing Qrow’s hair out of his eyes. “Yeah,” he affirms, cupping the elder’s cheek. “If you need to, just let me know, but… I’d like it if you just stay… _you._ ”

Qrow’s flush is darling, Clover thinks.

To his surprise, Qrow lies down first, holding his arms open invitingly so as to hold Clover. They have been doing this more as of late; “You have bigger muscles, but I’m clearly the older one,” Qrow teases every time Clover’s body instinctively curls into Qrow’s arms. Clover always wants to deny it, but the fact that he never feels as safe as he does when Qrow is sober and _present_ is one which he can never deny. So, Clover lies down, accepting the protection and affection, for it still feels like naught more than a fantasy to be cherished like this.

To be cherished _equally_ is perfect _._ There is no need for words. To Clover, Qrow is everything he has ever needed in his cold, detached life; to Qrow, Clover is simply Clover. He is not his Semblance, his power, his duty. He is simply a man who enjoys his hair being combed through with callused fingers as he drifts off to sleep.

That is all Clover has ever wanted.

And when he awakens the next morning, Qrow still holds him in his arms, his breathing steady and his cheeks flush with life. Clover lingers there for a moment, merely watching his chest rise, fall, rise again; his heartbeat echoes in Clover’s ears, the rhythm so perfectly engrained into Clover’s memory that he could walk to that cadence forever.

Qrow will try his best not to drink that day. Clover will help him the best he can. It’s small, but the fact that he is not alone as he greets the new day is enough to tell him that they’ll get through this somehow, together- be it with a corvid or with a man.

Either way, crimson eyes shall look at him with affection throughout it all. He’s not alone. They’ll be alright.

**_-fin-_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here are my [other FG works!](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1898392)
> 
>  _Other RWBY series:_  
>  If you want to see more of Qrow in canon, check out my [Qrow Branwen-Centric Fic series!](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1448095)
> 
> Here are [AUs both set in canon and out](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1690948) for RWBY. 
> 
> If you want to stay completely within RWBY's canon, here is [ another series of completely canon-compliant fics for you.](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1815229)
> 
> If you're looking for a long series in canon and like Team JNPR, here's a series that's a [rewrite of Vol. 1-6 through Pyrrha and Nora's eyes!](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1448071)
> 
> If you’re a fan of podfics, find all my [podficced works!](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1914916)
> 
> And of course, [follow me on Tumblr](https://faultyparagonfiction.tumblr.com) for art/updates/podfics :)
> 
> Cheers for reading, y'all! See you in my other fics, and let me know what you thought of this fic!

**Author's Note:**

> Leave a comment and let me know what you think!


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